With All Her Faults
by Selene Antilles
Summary: Narnia, England and the war have driven the Pevensies so far apart, Peter joins the army just to get away from the tension and animosity. Someone must save him - teach him to let go of Narnia and love England again - before it's too late. But who? PeterOC
1. This Mess

Overall Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia nor am I associated with C.S. Lewis' estate. No copyright infringement is intended.

**This Mess**

_March 1944_

London, England

Peter Pevensie strode from the enlistment office, the faintest of smiles on his face. His eyes held a grim determination as though he were facing a terrible, wonderful dream he'd never quite conquered before. Enlistment papers clutched in one hand, he glanced to the sky, setting his jaw against the grey clouds threatening to burst open on the bent heads that bustled from street corner to street corner. Dull, dreary, there were a thousand words that could describe England. Peter groaned as a raindrop bounced off his cheek and he shoved the precious papers beneath his coat. A rat scurrying along the sidewalk dove for cover beneath the street as the skies opened up.

_I'm with you, buddy. I hate the rain,_ Peter silently commiserated. With a heavy heart and a light step, he pushed his hands in his pockets, ducked his head and blended in with the hurrying British masses.

The train station was wet and dirty and seemed to radiate with the stench of fear that hung just over the city. It seemed that war had become an irritating part of daily life, like bills or late trains. At the thought, Peter's gaze traveled above the crowd to settle on the clock high on the wall. He rolled his eyes as he noticed the train to Finchley was already ten minutes behind. He'd be late getting home again, be scolded by Susan at the door, scolded by Mum on the way through the kitchen and, if he was lucky, get a grunt from the lump on the top bunk that he always assumed was Ed. If Lucy heard him come in whilst studiously buried in her lessons, she would stop him in the hall for a quick hug, but then disappear behind a closed door and a pile of books again.

Peter shook his head, trying to remember the days when his family was close-knit and loving, when they stepped in front of swords for each other and always had a shoulder ready to cry on. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been too long. England and a mechanical war had formed a wedge between them; they would never be the same again. At least this blasted war would keep them from killing each other. He only hoped his leaving would lessen the tension in his neck, if not in his house.

The obnoxious arrival of his train shook Peter from his thoughts and he slipped between the opening doors, just ahead of everyone else, to insure a seat. If he was looking to ease his taut muscles, swinging from the loops on the ceiling wasn't the way to go.

~~~

Almost before Peter had the door open, Susan was chiding him. Rubbing a little red lipstick on and checking her ministrations in the foyer mirror, she said, "Peter, you're late again! Honestly, when are you going to learn to look at a clock?"

"Oh yes. Because I didn't glance at a clock, the train was late," he retorted under his breath, throwing his hat on the table and stripping off his coat. He hung it, wet and dripping, on the rack and pointedly ignored Susan's protests as he brushed past her and the growing puddle.

As he wound his way between the open oven and various cans and containers strewn around the room, Helen sent a warning look to her eldest son. "You were supposed to be home twenty minutes ago."

"Late train," was all he offered by way of explanation before he dashed up the stairs. She shook her head, wondering, too, what had happened to her family.

Peter took the stairs two at a time but slowed as he passed Lucy's door, hoping for some sort of acknowledgement from his littlest sister. Right on cue the door burst open and Lucy threw her arms around him. A smile graced his face for a moment as he hugged her tight.

She pulled back to look up at him and asked, "Did you get my book, Peter?"

Kissing the top of her head, he nodded. "It's in my coat." He laughed as she pried herself away from him to dash downstairs calling some sort of thanks and a declaration of love for Ned Nickerson. Peter shook his head, still chuckling, before continuing down the hall.

With some effort, he managed to push the boys' room door open far enough to squeeze in and made his way to the desk through the hazardous piles of clothes, schoolwork and junk that had accumulated on the floor. He tossed his bag onto the bed, hitting Ed squarely in the face.

"Hey! Night shift!" Ed complained, pushing the offending object off the bunk onto the floor.

"Oh, night shift, my eye. You're housesitting, not drilling for oil." Peter rolled his eyes, flopping down at his desk and reaching to flick on the green glass lamp. The small circle of light revealed a staggering amount of dust on Peter's once-loved typewriter. He sighed and blew the keys off before putting in a fresh piece of paper.

"You've never tried to sleep on Mrs. Walter's lumpy couch with that damned bloody cat yowling all night," Ed retorted, covering his face with a pillow.

"Watch your language." The paper slipped sideways as Peter began to type, skewing the letters. He heaved an exaggerated sigh and ripped it from the typewriter, slicing his finger in the process. "Oh bloody hell!"

He could have sworn he heard a stifled, "Hypocrite," from beneath the covers.

~~~

Lucy bounded down the stairs, landing gracefully on two feet at the bottom. She caught the swish of a modern, black dress as the door slammed behind Susan and fought the urge to roll her eyes but grinned as she spotted Peter's coat dripping from the rack. Skidding across the tile floor, Lucy flipped back the wet, black fabric and stuck her hand in the pocket but came up with nothing. She frowned, remembering the ridiculous number of pockets and pouches sewn into Peter's jacket. She had commented on it when he bought the thing but he'd insisted he would need every last one of them. Lucy rolled her eyes, suppressing a grin.

Finally, on an inside pocket, her fingers brushed paper. Smiling happily, she pulled it out. Her brow knit as she realized it wasn't her new Nancy Drew and almost just shoved it back in the coat to continue looking but something caught her eye. Slowly, she unfolded the crisp, white forms and felt her throat constrict.

_Hasn't he fought enough wars?_ she cried to herself. Lucy pursed her lips a moment, thinking, and then stuck the enlistment papers in her own pocket, The Secret in the Old Attic forgotten.

Lucy wandered back up to her room, chewing distractedly on her lip. She paused with her hand on her doorknob and glanced to the boys' room. Shaking her head, she pushed open her door. Lucy's room was a far cry from Ed and Peter's. The floor was spotless; everything was in its place. Her bookshelves lined two walls and her bed and desk were squeezed in beside the door. The antique armoire that housed her clothes and linens, however, had a wall of its own. With a noble effort, Lucy held back her tears and leaned against the door, fingering the rusted handle. It wasn't anything special, but when she'd seen it at a small shop two years before, her eyes had lit up with a secretive, mature delight her siblings had tried desperately to ignore. She'd promised Mum she could save enough money for it and she had. Yet, now, as it sat in her room, perfectly dusted and cared for, she wondered at how a similar piece of furniture had brought her family together and just as easily, driven them apart.

~~~

It was late when Lucy finally gathered up the courage to knock on her brother's door. Mum had gone to bed, Ed had long since left for Mrs. Walter's house and Susan wouldn't be home for hours. It was now or never.

Peter yawned and stood to pick his way to the door. Lucy stared up at him, a look he recognized as somewhere between needing a hug and wanting to strangle him plastered on her face. It was a look he wasn't unfamiliar with and so he stepped aside to allow her entrance. Lucy wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant odor of dirty socks so Peter gestured to her door down the hall. He had a fleeting thought of moving his typewriter into her lighter and much cleaner room so he could write in peace. There had been a time when Peter's only goals had been to study English at Oxford and to pen a novel. He shook himself back to the present as Lucy closed her door.

"What is it, Lu?" he asked, the tired quality of his voice weighing on her mind.

"More importantly, what is _this?"_ Peter found his enlistment papers shoved unceremoniously under his nose. His sigh was laced with angst and anger. He tore the forms from her hand.

"Lucy! Come on, now you're snooping through my stuff? You-"

"_You_ sent me down to get my book out of your coat," she cut him off. After a moment Peter nodded, looking to the floor.

"Right."

"Peter… Haven't you fought enough wars?" she pleaded.

He shook his head, shuffling his feet. "It's not about the fight, Lu."

"Yes, it is. It's always been about the fight, the honor, all that rot."

"No, it's about leaving."

That stopped Lucy in her tracks. "Leaving what?" Hesitation reflected in her eyes, as though she was afraid of the answer. Peter glanced to the window, the rainstorm outside beating mercilessly against the glass.

As he spoke, his eyes turned back to her. "This house. This family. This _mess_."

Lucy took a step back, looking like he'd literally slapped her. "So because things aren't perfect, you're going to turn tail and run away? Peter, that's so unlike you!"

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm sick of being the strong one. You ever think of that?"

Lucy stared at him, unsure of what to say or even think. She stammered over words, none of them quite right. Peter set his jaw, looking at her but, for the first time, not really seeing her. He spun on his heel and marched from the room, slamming the door behind him. Lucy waited until his heavy footfalls faded to finally let herself cry. The tears came unbidden, yet she felt as if she'd called for them. Emotions this strong weren't supposed to be contained in the blossoming body of a twelve-year-old.

She rested her forehead against the rough wood of her precious armoire, tears pouring down her cheeks. "Oh Aslan. Please help him," she prayed in a whisper, knowing in the darkest, most cobweb-filled corners of her heart it would take more than her simple faith to save him now.

Lucy watched from across the yard as a boy purposely bumped into Peter just as he hit the bottom step, sending him and his books flying. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping against hope he would shrug it off, turn the other cheek, but Peter was having none of it. Lucy sighed, used to the increasing number of fights her brother wound up in. There had hardly been a day in the past week when he hadn't come home sporting a black eye or a ripped shirt. It seemed today would be no different.

Susan joined her, her arms full of flowers. Lucy eyed the pink and purple blooms dubiously before looking up at her older sister. "Who are _these_ from?"

"Kevin," Susan replied happily. Lucy tried desperately to remember which one was Kevin but as Peter delivered his first punch of the day, she found herself preoccupied with more important matters. Ed jumped into the fray, as usual, and, for once, Peter didn't begrudge him the chance.

The two girls wandered over to the fight, shaking their heads from the outskirts of the gathering crowd. With a few final hits, the brothers knocked their quarries to the ground. Peter straightened and instantly his eyes locked with Lucy's. With an affectedly ironic air, his lips twitched into an ugly half-smirk. Scooping up his things and winding between the groaning bodies of his adversaries now splayed on the concrete, he paused to murmur cruelly in her ear, "Maybe you weren't completely off base, Lu. I think it _is_ about the fight."

Night had fallen and the four siblings were cooped up in the living room due to a promise to their working Mum that they would spend some quality time together. Really, Lucy was taking up most of the couch as she sprawled out, finally getting around to reading her new book, Edmund was playing a rather boring, one-sided game of chess in an attempt to outsmart himself and Susan was flipping through the latest issue of _Cosmopolitan_. Peter, though, Peter was staring blankly into the fire, sitting ramrod straight in Dad's chair with his hands folded in his lap.

Suddenly, he stood and, with one hand in his pocket, said, "There's something I need to tell the three of you." At a pointed glare from Lucy over the blue top of her book, he amended, "Well, the two of you."

"The two of who?" Susan asked congenially without looking at him.

"You and Ed. Uh, Lucy already knows."

"Knows what?" Ed inquired, eyeing a knight belonging to his invisible opponent.

"That he's deserting us for the military," Lucy explained, her voice mockingly cheerful.

Susan's head snapped up. "You're _what_?"

Peter turned around to place a hand on the mantle, the portrait of his family, his _whole_, _happy_ family, sending shivers up and down his spine. He avoided eye contact with his smiling self, the cowardice in him welling up. "I'm joining the army."

"But you're only seventeen!" Edmund exclaimed, knowing full well how many of his and Peter's friends had lied about their ages.

Susan sat back in her chair again, her magazine lying open across her lap. "Why tell us now? When Mum's not here?"

"Well it's obvious," Ed said. When Susan appeared to not agree with him, he continued, "He's not going to tell her."

"You expect us to tell her for you?" A mix of incredulity, surprise and anger crossed Susan's face.

Peter shrugged. "Well you could let her think I ran off and joined the circus if you like," he quipped, his back still to them.

"I can't _believe_ this, Peter!" Susan slapped her magazine shut and tossed it on the coffee table as she stood, hands on hips.

Finally, he turned back to face them, crossing his arms as he did so. "Well I can't _take _this, Susan, so join the club!"

"_Take what?"_

"Why you're just full of questions tonight, aren't you, dear?" Peter snapped, "I can't take _this_!" He gestured around the room at the four of them, practically ignoring each other but to yell.

Susan swallowed hard, tearing away from his gaze to stare at the green carpet. She glanced back and forth, never focusing on any one spot as she brought one hand up to rub the back of her neck. Closing her eyes for a moment, she finally looked back up again to meet his. "Fine, Peter. Get yourself killed." Susan brushed past him, her skirt brushing against his leg. They all jumped at the slam of the front door.

Peter ran a hand over his face before storming to the back door. Ed's chess pieces rattled when that door slammed shut too. He steadied the board as he commented mock-lightly, "Well. I'd say that was good quality time well spent, wouldn't you, Lu?"

Lucy glowered at him fiercely and flipped herself off the couch. She threw her book down, not bothering to check the page number, and ran up the stairs. Ed braced himself for her slamming door, hands already out to steady the chessboard again. He placed his elbows on the table, chin resting on his fists and said to the empty chair across from him, "Your turn."


	2. The Sake of Fighting

**The Sake of Fighting**

Dozens, probably hundreds, of times Susan, Edmund and Lucy had lined up to send their eldest brother off to war. They'd hug him, kiss him on the cheek and wave until he was out of sight. Then they would return to their duties and leisures, knowing he would return safe and sound. This time, however, was different. None of them could be certain when or if he would come back to them.

Peter strode down the stairs, his new uniform pressed and clean, his satchel slung over his shoulder. Lucy waited first, his hat in her hands. He caught her cheek in one hand and kissed the other as he had done so many times before. He met the wetness of her angry tears with put-on ignorance, smiling gaily at her as he took his hat and placed it firmly on his head. Ed was next; arms folded and jaw set. He ground his canine against his bottom teeth as he had always done when holding in rage. Peter rested his hand on his brother's, pulling him in for a loose embrace; one filled with the space they'd unconsciously created between them. Susan danced from one foot to the next, her hands clasped behind her and her eyes traipsing along the floor. Peter didn't make an attempt to hug or kiss or even touch her. He just stood awkwardly before her, unsure of what was running through her mind. Susan's gaze traveled up the pant legs she had painstakingly creased by only the light above the ironing board the night before. She wondered idly if he had even noticed. Finally, she tilted her head back, meeting his guarded eyes through her lashes.

"Goodbye, Peter," she said evenly.

He gave a sharp nod. "Goodbye, Susan." They stood there a moment longer before he leaned in to place a lingering kiss on her temple. His hand against her hair almost brought on the flood of tears she longed to let go of but she angrily bit them back. No way would she give him the satisfaction of knowing she cared. No, not anymore. He was just her idiot brother, going off to war to fulfill some primal sense of duty. If he wanted to get himself killed, he would have to do it without her care packages.

Peter pulled away, a sigh trailing from his lips. He stuck his fingers into his pocket and pulled out a gold coin. He twirled it between his fingers, making it spin. That same surly smirk Lucy had wanted to slap off his face just days before made its appearance. "Who wants to tell Mum?"

Ed scoffed, looking to the hall mirror to avoid Peter's eyes. His own didn't prove much better. Lucy crossed her arms and, tapping her foot, looked to the floor, the ceiling, the wall. Disgust embedded itself in every fiber of Susan and Peter read it in the way her stance stiffened and her eyes grew colder, icy, even.

"Nobody? All right, fine. I'll keep it myself." Peter grasped the doorknob in his hand and turned it, swinging the door inward and stepping out. "Cheerio!" he called over his shoulder with false joviality, tossing the coin into the air. They all watched it sparkle with desperation before being snuffed in his enveloping hand. The door didn't slam. It didn't even shut. But just like that, he was gone. _Snuffed_ from their lives. Lucy was not the only one praying as he disappeared down the road.

Helen Pevensie practically skipped into the house that evening, her arms overflowing with grocery bags. She had managed to skimp and save and now had enough sugar to bake a pie for Edmund's upcoming birthday.

The aforementioned, Susan and Lucy were seated in the living room, looking even a bit more sullen than usual, when she came in. "Hello! Where's Peter? His school shirt was starting to look a bit tight so I picked up some fabric to make him a new one. I want to take his measurements and get started right away!"

Susan slammed her chemistry textbook shut, gathered her things together and ran upstairs before Helen could even ask what was wrong. Brow knit in confusion, she turned to her two remaining children. "Edmund? Lucy? What's going on? Where's Peter?" Lucy bounced out of her chair and began pacing back and forth, mumbling to herself. Ed sighed and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"They're cowards, Ed. They're both cowards. They're running away from their problems; burying themselves in everything else! Susan's got so many boyfriends I can't remember all their names and Peter's skipped off to war like he thinks it's going to be a picnic! What's wrong with them, Ed?"

"Peter's gone to war?" Helen screeched, dropping the grocery bags to the floor.

Edmund and Lucy's heads snapped towards her, almost as though they had forgotten she was there. They stuttered and stammered, alternately glancing at each other and their stunned mother. Lucy shrugged, at a loss for once in her life.

"Yes, Mum. Peter's been an idiot and gone to war," Ed finally managed.

Helen sank onto the raised fireplace, her hands on her cheeks. "He's only seventeen… He didn't even wait to say goodbye. Am I that horrible a mother he couldn't even bear to say goodbye?"

Lucy settled beside her mother, wrapping an arm around her. "No, Mum, that's not it at all. Peter's just- going through something. He loves you. Really he does."

She turned towards her youngest. "You didn't answer the question, Lucy." Lucy bit her lip and glanced at Edmund with a tiny shrug.

"You're not a horrible mother. You're the only one we've got," he filled in for her.

Brief skirmishes in the south of England and the north of France consumed Peter's days and, more often, his nights. Despite the advanced weaponry and air raids, war hadn't changed so much that Peter couldn't recognize it. It didn't matter how people died, only that they did. It didn't matter how they won, only that the newspapers reported they had. All he worried about was staying alive and making sure the guy across the way didn't. He was quiet and introverted during interludes of card games and raucous laughter. There had been a time when Peter couldn't be kept from enjoying a fleeting moment of peace with his men. Except now, he was just another soldier, not a king or a general. No one would look to him for advice or encouragement. In fact, he couldn't actually remember the last time someone had even looked his way.

So he proved his worth on the battlefield, almost never using his gun, in preference to the sharp edges of his bayonet. It put him in the thick of things and gave him the comfort of a sword, if not the sturdy silver of his own. Peter's courage, or recklessness, brought him to the attention of his commanding officer. It felt strange to walk from the enlisted men's tent to that of Colonel Turnage. Never in his life had he been on the receiving end of one of these 'reckless youth' speeches he was so sure he was going to hear. Peter wasn't positive, though, whether the sting came from the Colonel's need to give the speech to him or the use of the word 'youth.'

He took a deep breath and braced himself for humiliation before stepping into the tent. Turnage sat at his desk, feet up and on the phone. He motioned for Peter to sit as he agreed numerous times to whatever was being said on the end. Finally, he dropped the brown phone back into its slot and, placing his feet on the ground, turned to face Peter.

"Private Pevensie, it has come to my attention that you take undue risks on the battlefield," he began, getting straight to the point as commanders are wont to do and reaching for a file in his open cabinet.

Peter grit his teeth, steadying himself. "I don't believe so, sir. I know what I'm doing," he ground out.

The colonel's graying eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "You think so? If you can count the battles you've fought in on one hand, you don't know what you're doing."

Peter felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. The worst part was, the colonel didn't mean to be patronizing. He didn't know the scar that ran from Peter's collarbone clear down to his knee had split him open for over an hour before the surgeon could get him stitched up. He didn't know the fine red line that went almost all the way around Peter's shoulder had very nearly taken his arm off. But Turnage wasn't finished.

"However, I've seen you in action and you move like a soldier. You're green but you don't let the enemy know that. Through their eyes, you're the most experienced man out there. Which is why I'm promoting you. We could use more men like you." Peter could hardly believe his ears. _Promoting…_

Colonel Turnage smiled and motioned for Peter to stand as he moved around the desk to pin on the new insignia.

"Congratulations, Corporal." He patted Peter on the shoulder and then the phone rang and he was busy again and Peter was blindly walking back to his tent, the inquiring faces of his fellow soldiers blurring into one. They shrugged, ignoring him as he did them. That night he determined this wouldn't be the last time his previous experience would give him an edge.

And so it went over the next few months. Peter was reckless, ruthless, brilliant in battle, and he received a promotion. Yet something was missing. He wasn't a warrior anymore, only a soldier. The heroics he had been so renowned for were gone. He wasn't fighting for a cause, only for the sake of fighting. Everyone noticed something slightly different about Peter when he was on the battlefield. It was as if he was looking for something and thought he might find it in the blood splattered on his uniform, like ink spots at a psychiatrist's office. His eyes took on a fierce quality and he seemed taller, no matter how absurd it sounded.

Yet when he sat on his bunk, away from the laughter and jokes of the others, a faded picture clutched in his hands, the light in his eyes died. He was a shell of the man they fought beside. In the heat of war, they could always trust him. Maybe not with their lives, but he always knew what to do. Not so here, where he could remember so wholly the peacetimes he'd once known. Here he was angry and lost and mad at the world.

One such night after a particularly excruciating skirmish, Peter was one of the few men still awake. Three or four others sat huddled around a poker game passing a bottle of something purely alcoholic back and forth as they indiscreetly watched Peter staring once again at the unknown photograph.

"What do you think it's of?" one of them whispered.

"Probably his girlfriend," another said as he tossed a keychain into the pot.

"Nah, he's too ornery to have a girl."

Their curiosity got the better of them, so much later, after Peter had long since fallen asleep, two of them crept over to his bunk and slyly pulled the picture from beneath the edge of his mattress. One shone an electric torch on it.

"It must be his family." The picture showed the four siblings at a picnic on the beach. Susan was mock-glaring at Ed who had a cookie halfway to his mouth and Peter was tickling Lucy who couldn't seem to stop laughing long enough to get him back.

"You ever seen him that… happy before?"

The other shook his head. "Maybe they died," he said, squinting at the picture.

Peter cracked an eye open. "Maybe you shouldn't poke through other people's things," he announced his very much awake presence.

Both men let out yelps of surprise. "Oh! Er, uh, sorry, mate." The one dropped the picture on Peter's bunk and they took off for their own. Peter shook his head, too tired to be more than a bit put out.

May/June 1944

_Normandy, France_

By the time Peter was a Staff Sergeant, his division had been stationed in the south of England for weeks, training and awaiting the top secret mission they'd been pulled for. It demanded the utmost secrecy and even the date was undecided. All anyone knew was that they were collaborating with the Canadians and Americans and that the launch of the mission required a full moon. Late in May, June 4 was selected as their D-Day but the weather seemed to disagree. It was thought that the whole operation would have to be postponed an entire month so the full moon could be utilized, but on the fifth they received word to take the chance.

At about 8:30 on the morning of June 6th, Peter's division rode ashore of Sword Beach in the north of France near Caen. They came up the beach with minor casualties, a term Peter would have once deemed moronic. "Nothing is minor about casualties," he would have said. Now it was just something he heard in passing.

It was in that winning battle, however, that Peter's life was changed, once again, forever. For that day he did something Peter the Magnificent, the warrior and hero, would have done, not him. He saved a man's life. Peter hadn't grown close to any of the men in his division, but he could at least recognize a few if need be. One such man by the name of William had come ashore beside him and the two had worked out a natural rhythm. They fought easily, never as easily as Peter had fought beside his brother, but comfortably all the same.

It was nearly 2:00 in the afternoon and the infantry had advanced nigh on three miles. Peter was drenched in sweat but thankful to the relative light weight of his uniform in comparison to chainmail. For once he was using his gun, though he still preferred the bayonet and kept it close at hand. After quickly dispatching a line of Axis soldiers, he turned to find William flat on his back with a gun pointed at his head. He was gushing blood from a bullet wound in his shoulder. Without thinking, Peter swung his gun inches from William's face and knocked the pistol from the German's hand. The man turned, his rifle in hand and an ugly snarl on his face, which gave William the opportunity to roll away from the immediate threat.

However, now Peter was locked head to head with the German himself. They swung and kicked, their bayonets firmly in place. It was a graceful dance between two frustrated people, pouring out their grievances in light footwork and gory steps. In a final blow, the German slashed at Peter's chest, a perfect cut from arm to hip. It never crossed Peter's mind that he'd lost the one-on-one war, for with his last coherent thoughts, he kicked out, tripping the German so that he fell neatly onto his own bayonet.

Bloody blackness consumed Peter's world.


	3. Immature Glory

**Immature Glory**

_June 1944_

_Hastings, England_

Rachel Winstrom, British army nurse, bustled between rows of cots spilling out into the hospital hallways. The casualties from Normandy had descended on them that morning and, finally, the stream of injured soldiers was dwindling. Two men stopped her, a stretcher between them.

"This is the last one, miss. Where do you want him?"

"I'm sorry, but we're full. There isn't even any more floorspace-" she began to explain but was cut off.

"This one's almost dead as it is! We'll kill him if we try to move him again."

Rachel bit her lip, wiping a drip of sweat from her forehead with her arm. She glanced around at the crowded hall, the pristine white walls a sharp contrast to the dirt and blood smeared on the half-conscious faces that stared up at her. "All right, all right. We'll find a spot for him."

She had them wedge the cot between a bed and a balcony, the only available place in the whole of the building. With nimble, skilled fingers she pulled back the slashed shirt. After seeing so many wounds that day, this one wasn't enough to phase her. She gingerly plucked his dogtags from his uniform and, rubbing the blood and grime from it with her thumb, read aloud, "Peter Pevensie."

Rachel sighed. He was so young. They were _all_ so young. What made them don dull uniforms and march to their deaths? Were their lives really so bad? Or did they think it was all glory and no guts? Upon closer consideration, however, she remembered when she had signed up. She had practically glowed with excitement. The thrills, the honor… With a jolt, and Peter's dogtags still clutched in her hand, she realized she was no different than he was. Only now it would be her job to save his life where he had tried to lose it.

Rachel didn't know why, but her heart constricted a bit tighter than usual as she handed the doctor a fresh scalpel over the barely-breathing body of Peter Pevensie. She'd done this hundreds of times since she'd joined the military medical staff, but something about this one felt different. It was just a twinge, a feeling, a hunch, but something about this boy was different. Something that made him a man. Yet when she looked to his face, all she saw were seventeen years and the same wanderlust she saw in all the rest.

Hours after Peter's and a dozen other successful surgeries, Rachel found a free moment to check on Peter. She stripped off her gloves and mask and wound her way between overflowing beds, cots and stretchers to his corner by the balcony. Rachel pushed a stray strand of light auburn hair behind her ear and shifted to her knees. She touched a hand to the scarring cuts on Peter's face. Her fingers lingered a moment on his cheek before she reached under the cot to pull out the box of his salvageable things. His uniform had been useless but there were a few personal items on him still intact, if barely.

Gingerly she pulled the small stack of water- and blood-stained papers from the box and settled them on her lap. On top was the photograph of the four siblings. She ran a thumb over it, taking in the pure joy on each of their faces. Her eyes flicked to Peter's slumbering face, imagining him happy and smiling. She could picture his lips tipped up, a twinkle in his eyes. For some reason, it wasn't hard at all.

Rachel set the photograph back in the box and painstakingly unfolded a once-white scrap of paper so as not to rip it.

_Dear Su Dear Sister_ Dear Susan,

I won't say I've made a mistake, because I don't believe I have. _I would like to apolog_ I will say how very different this war is than any other I've fought in before and not just because I'm unaccustomed to guns and bombs and airplanes_. It is different because there is no sign of you_ It is different because I receive no worried letters, _no boxes stuffed with slightly stale biscuits_

His script was light and elegantly old-fashioned. She found it difficult to make sense of the unfinished letter, but could tell by his obvious dedication to finding just the right words that it meant a lot to him. Had his sister not approved of his going to war? Her brow furrowed a bit as she tucked the letter on top of the photograph. His face was young and naïve but it wasn't entirely impossible he was more world-weary than she had initially perceived him as. The thought only made her heart ache for him more.

A tattered journal was all that was left in Rachel's lap. Her sense of propriety kicked in and she found she couldn't bring herself to peek inside. Pursing her lips, she placed the journal in the box beside the photograph and the letter and pushed it back beneath his cot.

Peter's eyes fluttered open at the cool pressure on his forehead. Haze filled his vision and he went to rub it from his eyes but found he was so stiff he could hardly move. He groaned, blinking fiercely. The blurry shape before him became a woman, gently pressing a damp cloth to his forehead.

"Where-" Peter croaked. He cleared his throat and began again, "Where am I?"

"St. Agatha Hospital in Hastings. You've been here three days," Rachel informed him.

"Three days?" Peter's eyes widened in shock and he tried to sit up but gasped at the pain that shot through him. His hand immediately went to the bright white bandage that wrapped from beneath his arms to his hips. A sigh escaped his lips and he sank back onto the pillow.

Her mouth tipped to one side sympathetically and she patted his arm. "You'll be all right. Nasty scratch, but you'll be all right. Three weeks, a month or so and you'll be back on your feet."

"_A month?"_ he nearly shouted, "Oh no, no. That won't do."

Rachel raised an eyebrow at him. "Well it's going to have to."

Peter shook his head, wincing at the throbbing pain there. "You don't understand. I have to get back out there." He didn't even notice when he slipped back into the commanding tone that always got him in trouble. She raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms.

"Well if you're really that intent on killing yourself, hold your breath until you turn blue. But you are not leaving this hospital until you're fully recovered," she snapped, stormy blue-gray eyes flashing. She pushed herself to her feet in a huff and disappeared to nurture some other poor soul.

Peter slapped his hands over his face in exasperation and irritation. He cursed softly under his breath, an oath that would be foreign to the ears of anyone near. With a sigh, he drew his hands down to settle on his heavy bandage. _A month? Surely that was at the most, _he thought reluctantly, his body aching to be back in the fight, though he silently conceded that it might have just been an ache.

The next morning, Rachel settled a tray of food on Peter's lap, jolting him awake. His eyes opened warily and he glared in her general direction. She pointedly ignored the look. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. I was a little testy last night. Rachel Winstrom," she introduced herself, extending a hand.

Peter poked a fork into the lump of what he assumed was porridge. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

"For what?" She lowered her hand to her lap, realizing he wasn't going to take it.

"For assuming I'm in this fight to get myself killed or because I'm too young to understand what getting killed constitutes?" It was more of a snarl than anything and Peter watched as Rachel visibly flinched. His conscience barked a reprimand at his self-control, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. He'd always had trouble with the words 'I'm sorry.'

Rachel's jaw clenched and her fingers knotted briefly in the fabric of her skirt. She stared at Peter for a long moment and he brought his eyes up to meet hers. She swore she could feel an electric shock run through her, though they weren't touching. Tearing her gaze from his stony one, she glanced around the room at the other patients and nurses. Finally, she looked back to him but avoided meeting his eyes.

"Not too young. Too immature," she said harshly. Peter opened his mouth for a biting retort but she held up a hand. "Look, that may seem cruel, but I've seen hundreds, probably thousands, of young men just like you. You want adventure, excitement, and if you have to die, you want it to be romantic, noble and worth something. But did you stop to think what it would do to your family? Did you stop to think about everybody else? No, of course not. You thought only of a Victoria Cross pinned to your breast or a meeting with the Queen. Fame, fortune and glory. You-"

Peter abruptly interrupted her. "That's right. Fame, fortune and glory. I had it once. And, bloody hell, I want it back. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to eat my," he paused to examine the crispy, black square in his hand, "toast in peace."

Rachel found herself unable to form words after such a brush-off. With a shake of her head, she rose and whisked the tray away with her. Peter made a grabbing motion for it as she picked it up but only succeeded in brushing the hem of her stiff skirt with his fingertips. He collapsed back against his pillow with a sigh. The food may have been relatively inedible but he had planned to at least make a valiant attempt. A moment later Rachel returned looking rather flustered and set the tray back on his lap. With a mumbled 'sorry' she spun on her heel and stormed off.

Peter found himself involuntarily smirking.

Rachel slammed the door to her room hoping it would make her feel better. To her chagrin, it only jarred a small container of pins off the desk. They spilled like a million silver frustrations onto the floor and, with a sigh, she bent to pick them up. Once they were all back where they belonged, she stood and began to undo her hair. It fell around her shoulders and she fluffed it out with her fingers.

Sinking into the chair at her desk, she stared with empty eyes into her little mirror. Tiredly, her tumbling thoughts slowed. _What is it about him? He's infuriating! _With drooping eyelids, she began to unbutton her blouse. No matter how hard she tried to think of something else Rachel's thoughts dwelled on Peter. His wound, the photograph of what she assumed was his family, but mostly his eyes. Until that day she'd thought him an immature boy with potential for greatness, but one look in those deep, sea-blue eyes full of emotions she had yet to experience had her reeling.

No matter how cliched it sounded, she felt as if she could get lost in their crashing waves, drown in their chaotic depths. There was another world hidden behind his eyes and she was terrified of everything that lay within.

"Oh this is ridiculous! You're twenty-two years old. Get a hold of yourself!" she scolded herself aloud, "He's just a kid." But her last words lacked the conviction she'd meant for them to.

It was twilight and most of the patients were quiet, writing letters or reading, or already asleep. Peter leaned against his pillow, pen and journal in hand. His delicate script poured easily from the black fountain pen onto the page. Rachel watched him discreetly from across the room as she folded towels on a rack. Peter chuckled, feeling her eyes on him.

With a stab of his pen forming a period, he raised a hand, "Nurse? Nurse, could you come over here please?"

Rachel raised an eyebrow, knowing full well Peter avoided contact with her at all costs. After their first two meetings days before, they had unwittingly decided it best not to encourage confrontation. They were failing miserably but it was unusual for either of them to initiate conversation of any kind. She made her way to his cot and, hand on hip, stared him down. "You rang?"

"If you're so curious about what I'm writing, just ask," he said quietly.

"Who says I'm curious?" she defied.

"Seven not-so-subtle glances in as many minutes says so. You wouldn't make a very good spy."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Well obviously you want to tell me, so go ahead."

"Oh no, if you're going to be like that, I'm keeping it all to myself," Peter grinned.

"For heaven's sake, grow up!" she hissed, turning to march from the room, flicking the lights out as she went.

"Hey Pevensie!" Peter leaned against a column in the hospital courtyard, his eyes closed, but slowly opened one and then the other at the sound of his name. He sighed at the sight of Jonathon Dietrich, a corporal with nothing better to do than irritate him. Dietrich had suffered only a small wrist injury at Normandy and was to be sent back to the front lines in about a week.

When he didn't deign to reply, Dietrich taunted, "I heard you _almost _fought off some blasted German with your bayonet like a sword or something. How very _medieval_."

Some of the others laughed, though Peter wasn't sure why. It wasn't even funny. In the spur of the moment, he decided against an insult and asked, "You any good with a sword?"

Dietrich folded his arms and sauntered cockily over to Peter. "I'd say I'm quite the Lionheart."

Peter coughed into his hand to smother a smirk. "Oh really? Anybody got something for us to spar with?" He looked over Dietrich's shoulder at the others. They glanced amongst themselves for a moment before managing to scrounge up two heavy sticks.

Peter eyed the stick with disdain, remembering the hiss of his blade as he unsheathed it and the perfect silver shine just before a battle. Now here he stood sparring for the sake of his pride with a _stick_. He shook his head to clear it and moved to a suitable stance. Dietrich quickly followed the motion, exactly copying Peter. It took everything in him not to burst out laughing right then and there, but he held it in. He would have plenty of time for that once Dietrich was flat on his back.

The two circled each other, one light on his feet, the other pretending to be. With a roar, Dietrich lunged. Peter easily dodged the stab. It took mere minutes for the others to gather around the duel, staring in fascination as Peter blocked each amateur blow. Finally, he seemed to grow bored of the unequal match and, with a flick of his wrist, sent Dietrich's stick flying over the clustered heads and crashing to the cobblestones. He pushed him down with his forearm and rather dramatically pointed the end of the stick at his face. Dietrich was out of breath and panting. His face was beat red, though whether from the exertion or embarrassment, Peter couldn't be sure.

"That's not fair! I have a sprained wrist!" Dietrich protested vainly.

"And Pevensie's not even supposed to be up," a steely feminine voice said from the outskirts of the small crowd. Peter rolled his eyes and tossed the stick to the ground. The crowd parted to reveal Rachel.

"Relax, Rachel. See?" He spun on one foot, gesturing to his apparent agility. "I'm fine."

"That's why you're bleeding," she pointed with one hand to the line of red visible on his bandage through his unbuttoned shirt, "You idiot! How can such a supposedly intelligent man be such a moronic prat? And that's Nurse Winstrom to you."

Peter again rolled his eyes. With an exaggerated "Yes ma'am," he allowed himself to be led inside. Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, or even silently, he enjoyed all the attention.


	4. Bourbon Moonlight

**Bourbon Moonlight**

It was almost midnight when Rachel flung open her door to a pale, stumbling Peter. One hand loosely held her robe together and the other clutched the doorknob. She brought the first up to rub the sleep from her eyes, too tired to bother tying her robe.

"Dear god, Pevensie, what are you doing?" she mumbled.

Peter leaned heavily against the wall. "Looking for you," he rasped out.

The pained quality of his voice drew her from her sleepy haze. She blinked rapidly, forcing him into focus. Now fully awake, Rachel realized he looked awful. His hair was mussed as if from tossing and turning or, as Peter was wont to do, fighting, and his glorious blue eyes were clouded. "Peter! What did you do?" In an instant she was across the hall, her hands out to steady him.

Peter winced. "Oh it's Peter now, huh?"

"Don't be a cad. What happened?" she scolded.

Without a word, but definitely a grimace, Peter pulled back his shirt to reveal the dressing mostly undone and blood seeping through the gauzy white fabric. Rachel gasped, throwing a hand to her mouth. "Bloody hell…" she murmured, "Come on. I'll change the dressing in here. No need to wake everybody else up."

She took his hand and led him into her room, quietly shutting the door behind them. Motioning with one hand for him to sit at her desk, she grabbed a roll of gauze and some tape from a drawer. Peter pulled the too-small chair out and sat down, watching as she moved gracefully around the room. Her light auburn, almost strawberry-blond hair hung rather unaesthetically around her shoulders, belying her uneasy sleep. The white linen robe she wore over her nightgown flowed with her due to the soft breeze dancing through her open window as she turned back to him.

With delicate hands Rachel began to peel the bandages from his chest. He winced only twice, for which she was supremely impressed. The dressings were loose and bloody, leading her to wonder what he'd been doing.

"Really, Pevensie. How could you have gotten into a fight two hours after lights out?" Rachel finally broke the silence.

"Why do you assume I got into a fight?" Peter demanded indignantly.

She paused to raise an eyebrow at him. "You don't honestly think you can weave your pretty words into a neat, little, distracting web with me, do you? It might work with some of the others, but I know better."

He hissed as she dragged a damp cloth over his wounds, taking dried blood with her. "They're not pretty words. I really didn't get in a fight!"

"Then how did this happen?"

Peter stammered a moment, turning his hands over in his lap. Rachel nodded with finality. "I know. You got in a fight."

"No, I didn't! I- I-" he sighed, his pride wounded no matter how he chose to answer. "I had a nightmare. I guess I thrashed around a bit before I woke up."

Rachel set the cloth aside and met his eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, her voice far softer than silk.

Peter's brow furrowed, wondering briefly how she could be so caring and sympathetic, before it hit him. "Oh. It wasn't about the war. I can handle that," he clarified, "It- it was about my family."

She picked up the gauze and, holding it firmly in place under his arm, reached around him to wrap it. He held his breath so as not to breathe in the heavenly lavender scent he'd caught earlier that day when her hair had brushed against him as she helped him up from his cot. Peter remembered the days when he would never have denied himself such a tiny luxury and so the next time she leaned in, he breathed deep, exhaling so the stray strands at her cheek fluttered slightly.

"Are they the ones in the picture?" she asked finally, after her heart stopped tapping out a big band melody.

"What pictu- You looked through my things?" His voice turned accusatory and the moment's spell, however brief it had been, was broken.

"Ah…" Guilt crossed her features and she pursed her lips, wrapping the gauze a final time and taping it off.

"And you say I have no common decency!"

"Pevensie! All I knew was your name, but I helped operate on you myself and you'd been unconscious for two days. So, yes, I looked through your things. I was curious, all right?" Rachel tossed the roll of bandages back into her drawer and slammed it with more force than necessary.

"So you weren't really curious about what I was writing the other night; you already knew what it was!"

Rachel shook her head. "No, I didn't look in there," she admitted quietly. With a glance at Peter and another at the door, she got to her knees and stuck her arm under the bed.

He raised his eyebrows. "What are you doing?" he asked, chuckling slightly. The chuckle faded when she came up with a bottle.

She offered it to him with a, "You drink?"

"Won a few rounds," he admitted, taking the bottle. He held it up to the window to examine the label by moonlight. "Bourbon. Good taste." Peter almost didn't catch her smirk as she sat on the edge of the bed, it being the only other seat in the room. He uncapped the bottle and took a long swig, savoring the creamy flavor on the end of his tongue before handing it over.

Rachel put her lips to the neck and somehow managed to make it look elegant, drinking from the bottle in the middle of the night. They sat in silence for a long moment, exchanging drinks. Peter rested an elbow on the neat, white desk, admiring the waning moon that seemed to be just outside the window. He felt as though he could reach out and touch it. Never in England had Peter seen such a moon.

"What is it?" Rachel's voice seeped through the silence.

"The moon. It's so… Oh, I don't know. So…" Peter trailed off, sipping at the bourbon.

Rachel stood and padded across the hardwood floors to see for herself. The sight took her breath away. She wasn't entirely sure _why_ it did, for it wasn't full, nor was it a luscious harvest yellow. Instead, it was an awkward sort of oval shape and its white hurt her eyes. Still, it was stunningly beautiful. She stood behind Peter and set her hands on his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense beneath her touch. He handed the bottle back to her and pulled away, leaning his folded arms on the desk. When his gaze did not stray from the window, Rachel returned to the bed. And so they remained for what was left of the night or morning rather.

The beginnings of a hangover woke Rachel from a dead sleep. The first thing she saw when she finally managed to pry her eyes open was the empty bourbon bottle discarded by Peter's feet. The first thing she thought was, _Bollocks, Peter!_

In an instant she was awake, headache and nausea forgotten, if only to be replaced by an adrenaline rush that felt irritatingly similar. She rolled off the bed and onto her feet, taking a moment to gain her balance through the dizziness that she swam in. Placing a hand on Peter's slumped shoulder, she shook him. "Peter," she whispered urgently, "Peter, wake up."

He grunted and raised his head from the desk. His eyes were a bit glazed over and he mumbled, "There are three of you," before fully waking. "Oh. There you are. It's morning already." The last was a statement, rather than a question, but still he didn't seem to comprehend it in his mostly asleep and just a smidgen hungover state. "Oh. It's morning already. Right."

"You have to get out of here! We can't have somebody seeing you. What would everyone think? I mean-"

Peter placed a hand over her mouth, effectively stopping her rambling tirade. "You talk too much and you're far too concerned with propriety; after all, why not just tell them the truth; but don't worry. I won't do anything to injure your reputation. It won't have a broken fingernail by the time I'm safely back on my cot." Rachel noted he was far more sarcastic and acerbic in the mornings.

"Propriety nothing. I could lose my job if somebody thinks we, well you know. So go!" She pointed at the door, stamping her foot. "You do know, right? Not too _young_ and _immature_?"

Peter noted she was far more sarcastic and acerbic in the mornings. He growled and stood almost gracefully, kicking the bottle by accident as he went. Rachel grimaced, afraid he would slam the door behind him but sagged in relief when she hardly heard it shut.

Fog crept into Hastings so it was impossible to see more than just across the street. It drifted in and out in wisps. Dew obscured windows and dripped from the trees. "You look terrible, Rach," Margaret, Rachel's good friend and fellow nurse, announced.

"Thanks. That's sweet of you," Rachel said with a fake grin before slipping back into the irritable frown she'd worn all day.

"No, really. You do. You look like you spent the night drinking yourself silly or something." Rachel was suddenly grateful they had decided to have lunch on a bench down the street so no one else would be around to hear this conversation. When there was no reply, Margaret smirked around her sandwich. "You spent the night drinking yourself silly?"

Rachel sighed. "No. But there may have been bourbon involved."

Margaret licked a bit of mustard off her finger and laughed. "Oh really. So who is he?"

"Who's who?" Rachel bit into her own sandwich, groaning as she lost a good portion of lettuce out the bottom.

"Honey, you don't spend the night drinking unless there's a guy involved. I imagine he must have been with you because the only other reason you'd down a bottle of bourbon would be if he left you and seeing as I'm your best friend, I'm supposed to know when you're in a relationship _before_ you break up."

"Ah. Right. Of course," Rachel rolled her eyes, "Um…"

Margaret quirked an eyebrow at Rachel's reluctance. "Well I if I had to guess I'd say that soldier. The young one you've been doting on. What's his name? Paul?"

"Peter!" Rachel corrected before she realized what she was saying. She flushed bright red and Margaret patted her knee.

"Right. Peter."

Rachel sighed. "How did you know?"

"It's my job to know these things. So what happened?" Margaret wanted to know.

"Nothing _happened_. His dressing came undone and I fixed it for him," Rachel paused, "And then we drank until about two o' clock in the morning and we fell asleep in my room."

Margaret stopped with her sandwich in midair, her mouth still open to take a bite. "You fell asleep in your room?"

Rachel blushed again. "Um. Yeah. I got him out before anyone saw him though. I hope. Lord, I feel like a teenager again. This is ridiculous, Margie. He's just a boy. And he gets on my last nerve. Why are we even having this conversation?"

Margaret held up a hand. "Conversation terminated. Have you heard from your brother lately?"

Peter sat with his back against the stone wall outside the hospital. He knew he wasn't supposed to be up and about quite this much but with the events of last night and the fight with Rachel that morning, he'd needed to clear his head. When the fog allowed, he watched said nurse and another woman he vaguely recognized eating lunch down the street. What was it about her that could make him so angry in so short amount of time? Only his siblings, the three people that knew him best, could do that to him. Even they couldn't get him riled like Rachel could, though. Just a few well-placed jibes and his blood was boiling.

Peter barely noticed when Rachel stood and crossed the street to come his way. Maybe it was the fog, maybe he was preoccupied, but either way he jumped when she stopped beside him.

"Ah! Criminy, woman," he breathed, shaking his head.

Rachel didn't quite roll her eyes and took a seat on the damp grass beside him. "I won't mention that you're not supposed to be out here because I'm sure you already know that."

"Mhmm." Peter didn't even bother to turn her way. Rachel exhaled exasperatedly.

"Are you planning on going to the dance everybody's so excited about? I mean, it's not for another two weeks so you should be okay to go." Her attempt at conversation was noble, but not incredibly well received.

Peter shrugged. "Probably not."

"I should have figured you wouldn't be much for dancing," Rachel acquiesced.

"No, I like dancing, just not this modern," Peter made a face and a gesture she guessed was supposed to finish the sentence.

"So what? You'd rather do the two-step?" she quipped.

Peter smirked. "Not exactly." They sat in agitated silence, nothing like the companionable quiet they'd found in the dark the night before.

Abruptly, Rachel spoke up. "What is it exactly that makes you such a, such a…" she trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Prat?" Peter offered helpfully.

"Mmm. Not quite as harsh as I was going for but it'll do," she conceded.

Peter took a moment before answering cryptically, "It's the fog, the rain, the tension. It's England."

"You're British."

"No, really? I hadn't noticed." Peter tucked his knees up to his chest and dropped his head. Rachel bit her lip, shivering as a particularly dense fog covered them for a moment. She was just about to walk away and give up on him, preferably forever, when the fog cleared. Rachel gave a yell and jumped to her feet. Peter groaned and lifted his head to ask what in god's name was the matter but his eyes widened and for a moment his jaw worked uselessly.

"Pevensie!" Rachel cried, "What just happened?" Above their heads were some of the tallest trees she'd ever seen and beneath their feet was at least two feet of snow – both of which certainly hadn't been there a minute before.

A slow smile spread over Peter's face. It wasn't exactly happy, nor was it quite comprehending, but it was content and pleased. He easily pushed himself up and dusted the snow off his pants before squinting at the sky. "We're in Narnia."


	5. Home Is Relative

Home Is Relative

With a sharp nod, he put his hands to his mouth and called out, "Excuse me? Is anybody home?"

There was a scrabbling about beneath a tangle of roots and an over-sized tree Squirrel emerged. "Hello, good sir. Would you be so kind as to tell me how Narnia fares?"

Rachel giggled in spite of herself. "Pe-"

"Why, I do declare, Narnia is as peaceful as it has been since the Golden Age!" the tree Squirrel squeaked.

Rachel let out a shriek and covered her mouth with a hand. Peter sighed at her stuttering and stammering. "Rachel, don't be rude," he chastised. She looked distinctly annoyed with him, but scooted a bit closer anyway when the Squirrel began speaking again.

"If I may, why do you ask?"

Peter cleared his throat. "I've been at sea. In fact, my calendar was lost some time ago and I honestly can't say what year it is?"

"1944," Rachel replied, folding her arms. Peter shot her an angry look. She pulled a face, then looked away to the clouded sky. Peter shook his head and nodded to the Squirrel.

"2500," the Squirrel said. By the way he took a few steps back, the two humans thoroughly confused him.

"Hmm… Who is sovereign?"

"King George," Rachel grumbled under her breath.

"King Stilian. And a good king he is, I might add!"

"Stilian… Stilian… The Winter Festival hasn't come and gone yet, has it?" Rachel could tell by the calculating look on Peter's face he was trying to figure something out.

"No, no. It starts next week. You have so many questions, you must be foreigners!" the Squirrel exclaimed.

Peter paused, his shoulders tensing. "I'm Narnian, but I've been away a good long while."

"What about me?" Rachel couldn't help but inject.

"Yes, what about your lady friend?"

"Oh we're not-" "We're not-" Peter and Rachel exchanged slightly embarrassed looks, their cheeks reddening from cold and poorly hidden blushes.

"I'm not his lady friend," Rachel said tightly.

"She's an Archenlander." Peter's explanation seemed to appease the curious Squirrel and he nodded, bouncing from one paw to the other. There was a brief awkward silence before Peter spoke up again. "Well we'd best be on our way. Thank you for the information, Master Squirrel." The tree Squirrel squeaked a goodbye and scurried back beneath his tree to his warm den and family.

Rachel spun to face him. "That squirrel was talking!"

"Yes, that's what Squirrels do." Peter looked somewhere between indignant, over-joyed and irritated.

"No, Peter. Squirrels do not talk. Never have, never will. You may like to think they do, but they don't."

"Here they do. Always have, always will."

Rachel 'harumphed' and crossed her arms. "So I'm _Archenlander _now?"

"It's a country to the North. Humans. Easiest explanation," his answer was short and quip, almost angry.

"Mhmm. Three questions, Pevensie: where are we, how did we get here and why are we here?" Rachel listed them off on her fingers.

"We're in Narnia, either Aslan called us or someone blew the horn and why… Who knows?" Peter shoved his hands in his pockets, wishing for some more appropriate clothing as he made his way down the small embankment and onto a snow-covered road. Rachel followed, slipping and sliding behind him.

"Narnia? I've never heard of it. And who's Aslan?" she demanded, coming to a slippery stop almost on his heels.

"Narnia is a country in a world Aslan created. He's sovereign."

"I thought the Squirrel said King _Stilian_ was sovereign," Rachel pointed out, still looking unnerved at the fact the Squirrel had _said _anything.

"He is. Aslan's sort of King of Kings, if you know what I mean." Peter kicked up some of the fresh powder as he walked.

"Like God." He noticed her interest with a twang of aggravation and a quieter one that sent thrills through his veins.

"Anyway, I'm pretty sure we're in the Lantern Waste. It's a couple days walk to Cair Paravel. Lucy and Ed said Caspian rebuilt it. I'd imagined that's where Stilian keeps residence. It's far nicer than the Telmarine towers if Caspian was faithful to the original, after all," Peter rambled as they walked.

"If I had any idea what you were talking about I might be interested. Now how do we get back?" Rachel rubbed her arms with her hands in an attempt to warm up.

"We don't. Aslan'll send us back when he's ready." Peter looked up sharply at Rachel's gasp.

"Pevensie! I have a job. I can't just go traipsing off to other worlds whenever I feel like it," Rachel exclaimed, pinching herself.

"You won't wake up. I promise it's no dream. And you wouldn't be here if Aslan didn't need you for something, no matter how much that irks me."

"I mean it, Peter! I have to get back! What will people think? We must have just disappeared! Aft-" Rachel stopped dead in her tracks, hands in the air and eyes wide. "Pe-Pe-Peter? What's _that_?" She stabbed a finger at the road up ahead of them. Peter turned to look and grinned.

"Halloo!" he called, "Wait up!" With that he took off running, throwing powder up onto Rachel. She sighed and ran after him. They stopped in a group of… creatures. Rachel could think of no other name for them. Things of myth and fairytale. An over-sized Mouse with a sword at his side, a dwarf, a man with the body of a horse. What were they called again? Something Greek, she thought.

"Hello! Off to the Winter Festival?" a large Fox asked jovially.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world!" Peter's grin was almost contagious and Rachel had to hold back one of her own.

"We can spare some food and fire if you'd like to join us," the man/horse offered.

"Thank you, good centaur. We would greatly appreciate it," Rachel vaguely heard Peter say. _Centaur! That's what they're called,_ she thought idly.

"Oh no, no, no! We have to get _back,_ Pevensie!" Everyone turned to stare at Rachel's outburst.

"Rachel, I told you, we can't get back on our own. And I, for one, am certainly not going to skip the Winter Festival because for some bloody reason you miss England," Peter told her almost under his breath. She wondered if he had something to hide from these strange people.

"It's my home!"

"There's a war!"

"It's your home too!"

"No it's not. _This_ is my home. Always has been, always will be," Peter snapped, spinning on his heel with a mostly genuine smile. "You wouldn't happen to have any clothes with you, would you? We've come from far away, as you can see."

The dwarf and the mouse shook their heads regretfully. "Afraid not anything that would fit you two."

Peter nodded. "I thought so but there's no harm in asking." Rachel shivered and, rolling his eyes, he shrugged off his cardigan and handed it to her. She took it, glowering, but murmured her thanks.

They made camp on the edge of the Western Woods. As night fell, other travelers' fires could be seen glowing between the trees. Rachel sat on a log, warming her feet by their fire with Peter's cardigan hanging a bit too large on her shoulders. She had to admit, dinner had been lovely. Roasted vegetables and tender strips of venison. It had been too long since she had eaten a proper meal such as that one. Still, her and Peter's disappearance weighed heavily on her mind.

The Fox, who's name she had since learned to be Alp, padded through the snow to her side and hopped up onto the log. "You wish to return to your home."

Rachel bit her lip and nodded. She was still unsure why Peter was so hesitant to tell these people where they came from. He had made something up so confidently for the Squirrel, why not for these creatures as well?

"You do not hail from Archenland as your friend would have us believe," the Fox stated.

"What makes you say that?" Rachel had never been a good liar, she knew.

"You do not have the look of an Archenlander. Too… foreign," he explained, curling his tail around himself to keep warm.

"She's from Archenland." Peter's hard voice cut into their conversation and both woman and Fox looked up at him. His face was stern, his eyes stony, daring the Fox to challenge his word. The Fox stared him down but nodded briefly and leapt from the log to pad silently away to the others. Peter took his seat and silently offered Rachel a steaming mug. She eyed him warily but withdrew her hand from his cardigan to take a sip. She nearly choked on the strong alcohol.

Making a face she said, "Good lord, Peter! That's awful!"

He laughed and took a sip himself, waggling his eyebrows at her. "Weak stomach?" he teased.

Rachel shook her head. "Not at all. But that's terrible." The obnoxious silence of the Woods began to rest solely on them as other fires were doused and their companions bade them good night. Finally Rachel asked, her voice shaky and lacking the confidence he'd come to expect from her, "Will we ever get back?"

"Unfortunately." Peter stood abruptly, tossing what was left of his drink into the snow. Rachel half-expected it to burn and sizzle but it only made a small stain on the pristine white ground. As he turned his back on her, featherlight snowflakes began drifting from the sky once more.

Peter woke with the sun, dawn just touching the horizon. He propped himself up on his elbows and glanced over at Rachel. Her dream-mussed auburn hair was lightly dusted with fresh snow. She had lost his cardigan in her sleep and now lay shivering beside him. With a smile and a tenderness he never would have shown while she was awake, he pulled the garment back over her. She shifted, moaning peacefully, and nestled further into the impromptu pillow someone had kindly made from winter grasses for her. His fingers trailed over her cheek, hovering just above her creamy skin. With a sigh, he stood, stoking the fire with a long branch and tossed a few nearby twigs onto it.

Three days later their group of six arrived at Cair Paravel. It was late in the afternoon and snow fell even as they walked but it was light and hardly even dusted their hair. Rachel was grouchy, her summer nursing uniform blocking very little cold even with Peter's cardigan. She trudged a little ways behind everyone else until they reached the gates of the magnificent castle.

A slight breeze filled with the scent of salt air lifted her hair from her neck and instantly she couldn't find it in herself to complain of the cold. Narnia was beautiful, she had to admit, but nothing so far had been as breathtaking as Cair Paravel. Peter stopped at the stairs leading to the gate. Rachel passed him, the sleeve of the light green cardigan brushing his arm. She took a few steps ahead of him but paused as she realized he wasn't following. The others in their group had left them behind, too excited to notice their missing human friends. Glancing back at him, she was struck by the emotion in his face. Peter was not one to get sentimental or wear his heart on his sleeve. He was sultry and stony, unpredictable and unreadable. But, then, that was England. Everything here was so different. So opposite. Where Peter's eyes had shone with buried maturity there, here they reflected an almost boyish yearning for things greater than he.

"Peter?" Rachel reached out a hand and rested it on his forearm. His gaze shot down, taking in her short, chipped nails and graceful fingers. He stared blankly at her hand for a moment, as though he wasn't registering her presence at all. Finally, the corner of his mouth tipped up in part of a smile and he wrapped his fingers around hers, dragging her hand from his arm.

"Hmm?" Warmth coursed into her hand as he rubbed it between his own. Her breath caught in her throat as he stepped forward, reaching toward her. She felt her eyes close of their own volition for the briefest of moments before she forced them open again. With the lightest of touches, Peter brushed a flake of snow from her hair, which flashed a brilliant red against the white backdrop of wintry Cair Paravel.

"I-I think the Fox, you know Alp? I think he knows we're not from here." Rachel bit her lip nervously, more from the smile she'd never seen in Peter's eyes before than anything else. She needn't have worried, however, because her words shattered the moment. Metaphorical shards exploded between them and he abruptly dropped her hand and stepped back. Once again his eyes were cold and distant and he clenched his jaw.

"I _am_ from here," he ground out.

Rachel sighed, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. "No, you're not! You may love this place, Peter, but it's not your home!"

"How do you know that? What gives you the right to discount Narnia from my life when you don't even know what you're talking about?"

"What about England?"

"Why do you care so much about sodding England? What makes a rainy, depressing country covered in blackout curtains so bloody fabulous?"

"It's _home_!"

"Not for me, it's not. You can't even begin to understand what Narnia is for me." Peter lowered his voice as they began to draw curious stares.

"I understand you love it and I get that. It's beautiful, peaceful, extraordinary. It's special. But so is England! You have a home, a family, a life!" Rachel followed suit, concern edging in on her anger.

"Would you give up the England track? I'm never going to love it and I'm probably never even going to like it! How can I when I have this?" He gestured at the beauty around them.

"But you _don't_ have this! You said it yourself: you have to return to England! Why not learn to love it too?" Before Peter could answer, Alp ran between them, yelping.

"Are you two going to stand here bickering or are you going to come join the festivities?" he barked impatiently.

Peter ran a hand over his face, quickly hiding any traces of anxiety. "Yes, yes, we're coming. Come on, Rachel."

She glowered at being rather ordered about but followed his lead up the steps. The closer they came to the palace, the straighter he walked. His chin tilted, not arrogantly, but distinctly. He appeared at ease, but braced. True importance, not self-importance, filled him. It was in the way he moved, the way he nodded to each and every being that passed him. Rachel had been right. This boy was a man, with secrets clawing just beneath his snarling surface.

He had a breaking heart and a broken spirit and seemed to think this place was the balm for his bleeding wounds. Something told Rachel being here could only make things worse. For as he had said: they would have to leave at some point. While the thought of a chilling British rain harmonizing with the toll of church bells and blurring Big Ben might warm her heart, it ripped his open.


	6. Mood Swings and High Kings

**Mood Swings and High Kings**

Rachel's gasp mingled with those of a hundred other denizens as they made their way into the courtyard. Brilliant red poinsettias lined the windows high above their heads and holly hung in every archway. Narnians cheerfully crowded together, talking, chirping, laughing and barking in every voice and native language. Peter grabbed Rachel's hand, holding them together as he picked his way between Minotaur, Badger and nymph. Before she knew it, they were standing in a grand hallway somewhere inside the palace. Peter quickly caught the attention of a centaur guard standing beside an impressive wooden door.

"Excuse me, sir?" Peter began. The centaur turned towards him, his dark eyes serene. "If it's at all possible, I _must_ request an audience with the king."

Rachel shook her head. Of all the pompous things, he thought he could just waltz into some foreign land and have a chat with the king. These were delicate matters! Commoners didn't walk into Buckingham without an invitation; certainly it was no different here.

"But of course. His Majesty will be appearing tomorrow for audience, as usual," the guard informed him. Peter shook his head.

"No, I seek a private meeting with the king. It is a matter of utmost importance," Peter confided.

The centaur looked the two over with a debilitating glance before giving a sharp nod. With narrowed eyes he inquired, "Any weapons?"

Peter lifted his arms. "None." The guard nodded and reached for the large gold handle on the door. He held up a finger, gesturing for them to wait. Rachel's eyebrows shot up.

"That's it? He's just going to let us into to see the king? And what's this life-or-death matter you need to speak with him about?" she demanded in a rush, tucking a frizzy curl behind one ear and dropping his hand so she could place hers on her hip. Neither seemed to realize they had been holding hands through Peter's entire conversation with the centaur.

"Narnia's a bit less… rigid… than _England_, you'll find," he half-sneered.

Rachel sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. He could go from noble to frustrating in a matter of seconds. Before she could form a quip response, however, the door opened again and the centaur nodded for them to come in. Peter straightened his shoulders almost imperceptibly and stepped forward. Rachel began to follow, shrugging out of his too-large cardigan, but he motioned for her to stay.

"Will you wait here, Rachel?" he requested, his voice annoyingly polite. She was momentarily stunned, but the door shut with hardly a sound before she could even open her mouth. Her hands balled into fists and she shook them at, well, she couldn't be sure. The sky, Narnia, _Peter_.

"Oooh!" she growled at the closed door, furious at being dismissed so. "I stitch him up, I put up with his tantrums, I let him drag me to god-knows-where and he tells me to 'wait here'?" Rachel had meant the outburst to be a silent one.

"Did somebody finally learn the secret to invisibility?" a deep, masculine voice asked from her right. Rachel spun around, her fists falling to her sides. She leaned forward slightly, eyes squinted in confusion at the random question. With a sweeping glance she took in the shock of dark hair and the easy brown tunic and breeches. Realization dawned and she straightened, a light blush spreading across her cheeks.

"I said that out loud, didn't I?" she asked rhetorically. The handsome man grinned and nodded.

"It's all right, I talk to myself too," he winked, "Just not usually in the empty hallway in front of the grand throne room."

"Right. Only half-crazed women like me do that," she joked back. Turning to her left, she said, "So, Jimmy, how's the weather in Hollywood?"

There was a brief silence in which she assumed he was trying to figure out where Hollywood was. He gave a short laugh, his eyes smiling brightly as he held out a hand. "Tal Dinerek."

She grasped his hand firmly in hers, the calluses beneath her fingers strangely different from Peter's, yet distinctly familiar. He wasn't a soldier. He was a surgeon, hands soft, cold and firm from holding a scalpel of some kind. She'd know such a kindred spirit anywhere.

"Rachel Winstrom."

The throne room was stunning at least and breathtaking at best. The gold-leaded glass ceiling arrayed the brilliant winter sun across two thrones of white marble. Almost as Peter remembered it. A middle-aged man of about thirty-five stood with his foot against the stone, resting his arm on his knee. The thin circlet of gold resting in his shock of black hair gave him away as the king. He gazed out the window overlooking the sea far, far below them. As Peter and the guard entered the room, he glanced up and straightened. Peter bent swiftly, almost touching his knee to the ground before standing again.

Stilian politely inclined his head. "Now what is this urgent matter, good citizen?"

Peter took a deep breath. "I'm afraid it's going to sound a bit outrageous, which is why I'm ready and willing to offer evidence."

The king folded his arms over his chest. "All right. Go on then."

"My name is Peter. I'm not named after the High King," Peter paused, "I _am_ the High King."

Both Stilian and the centaur guard's jaws dropped. The regal creature stepped forward. "What sort of blasphemy is this? None of the Kings and Queens of Old are able to return to Narnia. Everyone knows this!" he exclaimed.

"I know that better than anyone, I'm afraid, and I truly do not know how I came to be here again. But, as I said, I can offer proof." Peter struggled to admit that by all accounts he wasn't supposed to be there. Stilian raised an eyebrow at the younger man.

"There is a treasure room on the east side of the palace near the orchards. For over a thousand years it housed the gifts Father Christmas bestowed upon me and my siblings," Peter began but was cut off by Stilian.

"Common knowledge," he pointed out impatiently.

"Yes, but only the Kings and Queens of Old know this: there is a secret vault beneath the treasure chamber. It is accessible through four passageways; one through each of our alcoves. It was originally designed as a shelter for the royal family in the case of attack." Peter's thoughts flickered involuntarily to Lucy's nightmares that had spurned the construction of a bomb shelter, despite the fact it would likely never be used. At the time he had thought it a ridiculous expense but it had comforted his favorite little sister so he had bit the bullet and paid for Black Dwarves to come dig a giant hole in the ground. It seemed it was finally going to come in handy.

Stilian's brow knit with concentration and he stroked his bearded chin with one hand. "How do you know it is still there?" he prodded.

Peter thought of the eight tons of rock the dwarves had lined the shelter with to insure its security. Ed hadn't let him see the expense charts for three months after that. He shook his head to clear it. "Trust me. It's still there."

"So how far did you come?" Tal asked, offering Rachel his elbow. She smiled and looped her arm through his, contemplating a snappy comment meant more for Peter than the kindly man before her, before answering.

"Archenland." Rachel hoped sincerely that was the correct name of the country Peter had assigned for her.

"Oh, not too far then. Just over the border." He gave her a curious once-over. "I came from the islands myself."

"Oh? How far for you then?" She hoped the innocent question wasn't too ridiculous for a native to this strange world.

"Oh I don't know anymore. I lost track. The sea just doesn't sit right with me. I'm more of a land person myself," he admitted, holding a dangling ivy back for her to pass beneath.

Nodding her thanks, she said, "Me too. I love to look at the ocean, sit on the beach, picnic in the sand, but I don't like to be out on it."

"Any particular reason?"

Rachel bit her lip. The problem with healers was they tended to be uniquely perceptive. Her brother had always been the same way. "I-I lost someone dear to the sea. My fiancé." Tal looked confused and she rubbed her forehead with thumb and forefinger. "Betrothed," she corrected herself.

"Ah. I'm sorry." He placed a hand on hers, holding it comfortingly against his arm. Rachel nodded dumbly, her thoughts momentarily consumed with Albert. He'd been such a nice boy. She could have been happy with him. Maybe it wasn't true love, but she wasn't naïve. Even before she'd joined the military medical team she had seen enough death to know the Grimms had been only half-right. Evil stepmothers were more plentiful than Prince Charmings and the slipper didn't always fit just perfectly. She didn't believe in fairy tales. As a faerie cheerfully flitted past them, she internally rolled her eyes at Irony herself.

Rachel had grown quiet and Tal searched frantically for something to fill the silence with. Spotting an archway tucked behind a leafless bush and wracking his brain for what lay beyond it, he discreetly led her in its direction. "I _believe_ there is a white rose garden back in here somewhere. I remember it from the last winter festival I attended," he mentioned.

"This time of year?" Rachel asked skeptically.

"Yes. They say that Aslan gave Queen Susan the ability to sing flowers and she abused it by singing in winter so he took the power away, but ever since then pure white roses grow here only in the snow," Tal explained briefly.

The question rolled off her tongue before she could stop it. "Who's Queen Susan?"

Tal stopped mid-step and stared at her. "I thought you said you were from Archenland."

With a wince, Rachel realized her mistake too late. Obviously this Queen Susan was someone everybody knew about. "I am," she scrambled for an excuse, "But my family lives high in the mountains and this is the first time I've ever been down into Narnia. We don't get a lot of news up there."

"You're dressed awfully cool for the Archenland mountains," Tal pointed out. Rachel glanced down, remembering how out of place she must look amongst the medieval floor-length dresses. She wondered idly if showing her ankles was going to get her strung up from the nearest tree.

"Ah… A friend loaned it to me. I'm afraid I clumsily spilt jam on myself this morning and a the Fox I was staying with had it lying around," she shrugged, hoping to high heaven it sounded natural, "'Tis a strange garment." Rachel covered a chortle with a cough at her own performance.

"I see. But you've truly never heard of Queen Susan the Gentle? The Kings and Queens of Old?" Tal couldn't seem to believe it. She shook her head. "Well. That _is_ far up in the mountains. Imagine! Never heard of Queen Susan!" he murmured mostly under his breath.

Rachel fidgeted, uncomfortable. "Well perhaps you should tell me about them then," she suggested.

"Yes, yes, of course. There's a bench in the garden." He propelled her by her arm into a small courtyard, open to the sky. Snowdrifts lined the carefully scraped stone path. A half dozen rose bushes flourished on one small mound, the delicate veins in their leaves traced in ice. Startlingly white flowers bloomed against the cold backdrop, a shocking blend of the same color.

Rachel gasped. "Oh! They're extraordinary!" She bent to take in the heavenly fragrance of a blossom, delicately holding the petals between her fingers. Tal smiled at her enthusiasm, leading her to a small stone lion bench beside the roses.

"So tell me all about these 'Kings and Queens of Old'," she told him, "They sound very romantic."

"Oh they are," Tal assured her. So he launched into the grand tale of the White Witch and the four children who fulfilled a prophesy and reigned over Narnia for fourteen years.

"What happened after that?"

"They disappeared. Just vanished into thin air. They were on a hunting trip in the Western Woods and one morning they were just gone. Someone found their horses and weapons in a clearing but the Four were nowhere to be found. It's assumed they returned to their own world."

Rachel twirled a curl around her finger, a girlish habit her mother had always scolded her for. "What were their names again?"

"Queen Lucy the Valiant, King Edmund the Just, Queen Susan the Gentle and High King Peter the-" Tal's answer was cut off by the appearance of King Stilian on a balcony just above their heads.

"Welcome to the Winter Festival!" he cried, raising his hands in the air. From the other side of the hedge Tal and Rachel could hear shouts and clapping. "Good people of Narnia, I have a great announcement; someone to introduce to you all that is. It is with true honor and humility I present to you High King Peter the Magnificent!" Peter stepped onto the balcony, nodding pleasantly to Stilian. Rachel's jaw dropped, along with those of every being present. Everyone began talking all at once and there were cries of blasphemy and outrage.

Holding up a hand, Stilian quieted the crowd. "My initial reaction was much the same but the High King has far beyond proved his identity."

"If I may?" Peter gestured to the crowd. Stilian bent his head and stepped aside so Peter could take his place. "Narnians! It is a mystery how I am here; I am as much in the dark as you. But I know Aslan has a reason for everything He does and what He does is always great. I am living proof He can make a king from the lowest of men. I have no way of knowing what purpose my presence holds here though I am sure we shall see soon enough. In the meantime, it is the Winter Festival. There is a saying associated with the Golden Age, my time, that I think is fitting here. In the words of my brother, Edmund, 'Eat, drink and be merry!'" A loud cheer went up from those gathered and they poured into the palace.

Tal placed a hand on Rachel's shoulder. "Ah… I suppose we ought to go in then."

She shook herself, pressing a hand to her forehead, finally coming out of her momentary shock. "That conniving little…" she trailed off.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm going to kill him! No, no. I'm going to skin him alive and _then_ I'm going to kill him!" she burst, storming away to leave a very confused Tal still standing in the rose garden.

Rachel stomped through the halls, following the sounds of the merry Narnians already enjoying winter festivities. Without warning, a door to her left opened abruptly and out stepped Stilian and Peter. She whirled around, grinding her teeth.

"Peter Pevensie! You barmy idiot! What do you think you're doing pretending to be a king?" she scolded angrily. Noticing Stilian standing just behind him she acknowledged, "Good day, Your Majesty. Pevensie-"

Peter grimaced and excused himself, taking her by the arm and pulling her aside out of earshot. "Rachel, I am not _pretending_ and I'll thank you not to say so again! I'm going to have a tough enough time convincing these people. Stilian wasn't so hard, he has access to the treasury of course so I could prove myself but everyone else…"

"Peter, you are not a king! And you're certainly not a High King! Besides, he was supposed to have reigned for fourteen years. You're obviously no more than a boy," she needled.

"Why that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. No, really, I think it is," he mock-protested at her eyeroll. "Besides, that's because-"

Stilian placed a hand on Peter's arm, interrupting him. "I'm sorry, sire, but is there a problem here?" He glanced at Rachel suspiciously. She heaved a sigh.

"No, no. No problem. This is Rachel. She's a friend of mine," Peter ground out, "Just a little misunderstanding."

"Rachel!" All three looked up to find Tal sprinting down the hall towards them. He skidded to a stop. "Your Majesty-ies!"

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"Tal Dinerek. Rachel, you said you'd never heard of the High King!"

Rachel sighed. "I hadn't. Look, Tal. It's a long story." Turning to Peter she said, "I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm confused and I'm freezing to death. If I had any idea where to go in this blasted castle I'd take care of myself, but I don't and you seem to. So lead the way." She made a sweeping gesture with her hand.

Stilian chuckled, realizing just how odd the situation was. "You can take the royal suite, Your Majesty, and the Green Room will suit you just fine, I'm sure, my lady."

"Thank you. It sounds wonderful." Glancing at Tal's rather pathetic face, she bit the inside of her cheek. "Tal, I'm dreadfully sorry but I really need to get cleaned up."

Peter wrapped an arm around Rachel's shoulders, turning her away from the doctor. "She'll see you around." He gave a tight-lipped smile and marched her down the hall.

"Peter, I can speak for myself!" She pulled from his grasp, waving a hand at him.

"You met this man, what? Twenty minutes ago?"

"What do you care?"

Peter grumbled to himself but didn't answer. He led her up two exhausting flights of stairs and through so many twisting hallways she knew she'd never be able to find her way back without him. The thought set fire to the tips of her every nerve; she vowed to learn her way around quickly so she wouldn't have to depend on him. With a start, Rachel realized she was beginning to think like they weren't leaving, at least not any time soon. She harshly blinked back tears at the very idea of never seeing Margaret or Richard or her mum and dad again. Peter came to an abrupt halt, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Here you go. I'll arrange to have some fresh dresses sent up for you," he said mildly.

"And they'll just magically fit?" she couldn't help snapping.

Peter grinned wickedly. "Don't worry. I've always had an eye for sizes."

Rachel flushed but looked him square in the eye, determined not to let him get ahead in their ongoing battle of- _battle of the sexes_, Margaret's voice grinned in her head. She matched his bold smile with one of her own. "You sure you don't need a good look before you go?" She spun on one foot, holding her hands up in a model's pose. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting at her sudden audacity.

"I could use a couple, actually." He tossed the return innuendo over his shoulder as he headed back the way they'd come to his own room. She watched him until he disappeared around the bend in the curved hall, more than just her lips, but her soul as well, touched with his vibrancy and charm caught somewhere between boyish and manly. Again she contemplated how easily his moods swung from irritable and angry to noble and self-sacrificing to roguish and teasing and back again. Shaking her head, Rachel swung her door inward and, not for the first time that day, gasped at the pure and natural opulence.


	7. Sand in an Hourglass

**Sand in an Hourglass**

Moss grew on the stone walls, giving the room the feel of the outdoors. Carved dark cherry molding lined the ceiling and matching planks covered the floor. An armoire stood against one wall and a vanity sat across from it beside the bed. Noticing the stoneware bowl and pitcher on the vanity, Rachel gently closed the door behind her and stepped around the bed to it. She poured a little water in the bowl and splashed it on her face, eager to scrub off the layers of dirt.

Satisfied, she straightened and wiped the water from her face with a fresh green cloth. She glanced around, taking in her surroundings. The four-poster bed came up to her waist and there was even a small stepstool at the end. Green gossamer tied off to finials on each post acted as the canopy and the fabric trailed down on the sides, nearly to the floor, creating a half-sheer curtain around the bed. She brushed the curtain back and ran her fingers over the down comforter, green-gold silk inviting her just to rest her head. Giving in, Rachel nimbly undid the buttons down the front of her uniform and tossed it and Peter's cardigan to the floor. Clad in only a strappy, white cotton slip, she kicked off her shoes and lifted herself onto the bed, collapsing into the comfortable oasis of pillows. Her eyes were barely closed before she was sound asleep.

The sun set, the moon rose and snow began gently falling again. After eight knocks, Peter began wondering if she was even _in _the room. He swung the door open, wincing as it squeaked loudly. He squinted, adjusting his eyes to the dark, and spotted Rachel's slumbering form on the bed. Peter silently padded across the room and lifted the gossamer so he could see her better. His eyes swept over her, something in his chest tightening at the curves no longer hidden by a nondescript uniform.

He reached out _almost_ involuntarily to trail his finger across the milky skin of her calf, softly calling her name as he did, "Rachel… Wake up…" She moaned and nestled deeper into her pillows, so he tried again, this time moving his hand up her thigh to her waist. "Rachel…" he murmured, leaning closer.

Her eyelids fluttered open and she peered up at him through sleep-crowded eyes. With a groan that took what little breath there was left in his lungs after the sight of her away, she rolled onto her back and stretched, arms over her head and toes curled in that womanly way she had. His fingers kneaded at her hip but she wasn't awake enough yet to scold him or brush him away. She rubbed at her eye with her left hand, attempting to focus, physically and mentally, but the weighted touch of Peter's hand on her side was keeping coherency from intruding.

"Rachel…" It was less of a whisper than a strangled, longing call and his eyes were burning again. Her breath hitched as his face twisted into that of the angry, mad-at-the-world boy she'd first met. Tears stung her eyes, something telling her the longing was less for her than it was for this place. He didn't want to miss it again; didn't want to feel that pain. He was already dreading… England. She ran her fingers through his hair, just above his ear, while the other hand gently caressed his where it rested on her hip.

"Peter, I-" A knock at the door interrupted her and he pulled away slightly.

"That'll be the maid with your things," he said quietly, moving away from the bed to answer the door. The nymph handmaid seemed a bit surprised to see him in the dark in Rachel's room but seeing as who he was, she wisely kept her mouth shut. She bustled into the room, lighting several candles that bathed them all in shimmering gold, and then began placing dresses from a large basket in the armoire.

"I'll just wait outside for you." He gestured to the door. Rachel met his eyes through the gossamer, straining to see blue through the green. She swallowed hard and nodded, wondering where her insistence to Margaret and herself that he was just a boy, a kid, had gone.

"Would you like me to pick out a dress for you, miss?" Rachel jumped at the lyrical sound of the nymph's voice.

"Um, sure. What time does dinner start?" she asked, assuming that was what they were headed down for.

"Fifteen minutes, miss," the handmaid informed her. Rachel slid off the bed, glancing in the vanity mirror. She ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it up in her usual manner. The nymph held out a relatively simple, burgundy dress to her, along with a corset and a chemise. Rachel took the dress but shook her head at the others. The handmaid looked confused, so she explained.

"I already have unmentionables. Don't worry. I won't be scandalous," she winked. Thankfully, no one would have to know. The nymph nodded her understanding and tucked the undergarments onto a shelf before quietly shutting the door.

"Will you be needing anything else, miss?" she inquired, her hands folded demurely in front of her.

"No, that will be all. Thank you," she said, "What's your name?"

"Salia, miss."

"What a lovely name. Will I see you in the morning?"

"Yes, miss." Rachel smiled and the nymph matched it as she backed out of the room. Rachel adjusted the straps of her bra and slip and pulled the dress over her head. It fell gracefully around her curves, melding to her as though it had been tailored exactly to her form. She twisted and turned, inspecting her appearance. Raising an eyebrow at herself in the mirror, she allowed an impish smirk. "I guess he really is good with sizes."

"I told you so." Rachel gasped to find Peter's reflection in her mirror. She spun around, her tightly sleeved arms clutched to her stomach.

"For heaven's sake, Pevensie, what happened to waiting outside?" she exclaimed.

He pouted, grasping her upper arms in his hands. "Back to Pevensie? And here I thought we were finally getting on swimmingly."

"Swimmingly? _Swimmingly?_ My god, Peter, what would fighting like cats and dogs have looked like then?" Her eyes widened in disbelief as she shrugged out of his touch. His arms fell to his elegantly clad sides and he made to stuff them in his pockets before remembering he didn't have any.

"You do look lovely, Rachel," his voice softened as he spoke and he glanced to the floor briefly, "Even if you don't have an 18-inch waist like those damnable corsets give you."

Rachel swatted his arm as she moved past him, her skirt rustling between his legs. "I don't have the energy to try and put that thing on," she confessed, "And, besides, I don't much want my pancreas squeezed up into my lungs."

"Only a nurse…" Peter teased.

Rachel picked her uniform and the cardigan off the ground, laying them on the bed. She began rummaging through the pockets and finally emerged with a compact and a tube of lipstick. Settling herself at the vanity, she snapped open the compact and rubbed a bit of rouge on her cheeks with her fingertips. Peter watched her ministrations with little interest, but when she popped off the lid of the lipstick he moved to place his hands on her shoulders. She stopped with the color halfway to her lips.

"No lipstick." Peter turned a pathetically adorable pout on her.

"What? Now you're my fashion and cosmetics consultant?" she sniped.

"Not at all. I just have a distaste for it. My sister wears too much."

Rachel studiously ignored the gentle kneading of his fingers on the pale skin at the base of her neck. "So I can't wear any?"

Peter leaned down so his mouth was next to her ear, keeping eye contact in the mirror. "You're far too beautiful already," he whispered. Shivering, Rachel slowly lowered the tube and placed the cap back on it. His hands slid over her shoulders and gave a light squeeze on her arms before he straightened, glancing out to her balcony in an attempt to conceal the embarrassment plain on his features.

Rachel toyed with the lipstick a moment, lost in her thoughts. Finally, running her fingers through her natural curls one last time, she stood. "All right. Let's go." Peter hurried from the room, almost as though he were escaping. Only what, Rachel wasn't sure.

Rachel wasn't expecting a feast, but when she stopped to think about it, it _was_ the first day of this Winter Festival. Ten thirty-foot banquet tables were already mostly full of guests when they arrived. She stifled a gasp at the dining hall, its decorations having far outdone those she had seen so far. Drapes of berry red hung floor to ceiling and lights twinkled far above their heads. Upon closer inspection, Rachel realized them to be fireflies, flitting merrily back and forth. So intent was she on the intoxicating sights that she barely registered the announcement of High King Peter the Magnificent and Lady Rachel. She did manage to notice when the entire room got to its feet and offered bows, curtsies and applause.

Peter took it all in stride as though this were an everyday occurrence. Only when he elbowed her in the ribs did she realize she was gawking. Pasting a smile on her face, she let him lead her down the sweeping steps and between the tables to the dais at the far end of the room. Stilian and his queen sat on elaborate gold-leaf chairs behind a table adorned with the evening's main course: stag. Peter made a respectful gesture with his hand on his forehead and he gracefully elbowed Rachel until she curtsied. The king and queen returned the gestures and they resumed their seats with dignity. The rest of the hall followed suit and Stilian motioned for them to join he and his wife in two waiting seats on the dais. Peter stepped aside for Rachel but she stared at him wide-eyed.

"I'm up there? In front of everyone?" She frantically remembered a terrifying case of stage fright at her first ballet recital as a little girl.

Peter rolled his eyes, his ever-present, good-natured smile keeping up appearances. "Of _course_ you're up there. They think you're the High King's lady."

Rachel puffed up, filling with annoyance at the insinuation. She held it in with grace, however, and stepped lightly onto the raised platform. Peter followed, taking his place with such an air she almost laughed out loud, picturing this scene back home at mealtime with him in his tattered green cardigan and something resembling pea soup on the menu. The queen raised a large glass bell and rang it twice. The assembled masses quickly quieted, all hungry from their journeys.

Stilian unsheathed a large butcher knife and ran it a few times over the metal rod. With naturally practiced ceremony, he stood and shaved several pieces of tender meat from the prepared stag. Placing a few slices on their four plates, he replaced the knife and sharpener on the heavy tray and a faun whisked it away. The queen rang the great bell once again and those gathered let out a cheer. Numerous creatures poured from the kitchens, bearing trays of meat and sauteed vegetables. Stilian raised his goblet in toast to his wife, Peter and Rachel and they did the same.

After each had had a sip of their wine, he spoke, "Your Majesty, Lady Rachel, this is my wife, Kaili." They nodded, murmuring their 'how do you dos'.

Kaili took a chunk of zuchinni from the end of her dinner dagger and, swallowing, asked, "How are you enjoying your stay, Lady Rachel?"

Rachel covered her mouth with the back of her fingers as she too swallowed. Smiling brightly, she replied, "Oh it's been just lovely! Narnia's quite something." Peter eyed her warily, afraid of what she might add to that, but it seemed she truly was as awed as anyone else. It was only him she wasn't impressed by.

Nodding, Kaili took a sip from her wine. "I remember the first time I came to Narnia. It was spring and the tulips were in bloom. Oh, I could have sworn the earth itself was pink!"

"Where do you hail from, my queen?" Peter piped up.

"Avra of the Lone Isles," Stilian answered for her.

"Ah, it's been many years since I was on Avra."

"I haven't been there since I arrived in Narnia six years ago," Kaili admitted.

Peter raised an eyebrow at Stilian. "Kidnapping yourself a bride, Stilian?" Rachel elbowed him in the side. Kaili giggled at her husband's blush.

"No, more… I became too comfortable and wouldn't leave so he figured the only way to get me out of his hair was to marry me," she teased. Stilian leaned over, placing a playful kiss on her cheek. Peter and Rachel looked on, they the only two feeling the air grow heavy and awkward. They both glanced nervously to their plates, focusing intently on their suppers.

It was late that evening and most had retired to the 'village' of elaborate tents that had been erected in the orchards and fields near Cair Paravel. Stilian, Kaili, Peter, Rachel and a generous handful of nobles remained in the dining hall. They now sat at one of the impossibly long banquet tables, the dais abandoned for less pretentious seats. Those left were close to the king and queen, less subjects than dear friends.

"Your Majesty?" a gnome began.

"Yes?" Peter and Stilian chimed together and then glanced at each other, startled. Rachel looked up from the depths of her refilled wine goblet to laugh. Kaili and the others joined in a moment later, wide smiles breaking the previously pleasant silence.

"How about just Peter? I think we'll all get dreadfully confused otherwise," Rachel suggested. The room stilled and everyone stared at her.

"But this is High King Peter!" "We can't do that!" "It's unheard of!" All manner of voices overlapped each other.

Peter raised a hand, quieting them. "No, no, Rachel's right," he conceded, "Peter will do in friendly company." Everyone seemed a bit unsettled by the idea but accepted his approval.

"So which majesty were _you_ referring to, Pansted?" Stilian asked of the gnome, leaning forward in his chair.

"_Peter_, Your Majesty," he stumbled.

"All right then, go ahead."

"I was wondering if you might grace us with stories of the Golden Age and King Caspian," he asked, suddenly a bit shy.

"But of course! I'm beginning to think storytelling is the only reason I'm here," he tacked the last on under his breath so only Rachel caught it. She pursed her lips, wondering if she was finally going to find out what was going on underneath Peter's happy, kingly façade.

Peter had always understood the art of a story, his love of words and the way they weave together far different from his sister's clinical view. He had never been much of a speller, but he mixed words and phrases with the ease of a master chef in his kitchen. A dash of this, a pinch of that and never measuring a thing. He captivated his audience with tales of the White Witch, the peace of the Golden Age and the fight to put Caspian on the throne. He recounted a handful of anecdotes regarding Susan's suitors and another handful of Ed's duels. His stories flowed together without breaks between and while the snow piled up outside, the group drained two pitchers of wine.

Noticing how dark it was and how late it must have become, Rachel glanced at her watch before remembering it was a completely different world and the time was likely to be different. Still, it read past one in the morning and they couldn't be _that_ far off. She was just about to comment on getting to bed when Kaili gasped.

"Aslan, it's late!" She pointed to the elaborately marked hourglass in front of one of the tall, stained-glass windows. It's steady flow of sand meant nothing to Rachel, but she could see everyone else quickly realize how long they had been mesmerized by the rise and fall of the High King's voice. One by one they stood, thanking the legend for his storytelling and saying their goodnights.

Peter stretched in a comfortable, relaxed movement that Rachel noticed from the corner of her eye as she returned Kaili's friendly wish of pleasant dreams. Hours before, a faun had brought out refreshments for the lingering festival-goers and been asked to stay. Now he rose, taking the tray with him, but not anticipating Peter absent-mindedly standing in the doorway to the kitchen stairway. The two collided with the sterling silver platter hitting Peter in the chest. He gasped, one hand clutching his bruised ribs and the other reaching blindly for support. It came first in the form of the doorjamb but his hand slid down the slick wood so he lost his balance and nearly tumbled to the floor. Rachel was around the table in seconds, instincts kicking in. He swallowed hard and his breath came in short, hard bursts, but she could tell he wanted her to downplay it to the others.

Everyone clustered around them, concern pressing in. Rachel ignored them, her eyes boring deep into Peter's, the color and depth for once not distracting her. He silently communicated through the squeeze he gave her shoulder that he was certainly not okay but through his stare that he could manage to pretend.

"Your Majesty! I'm so sorry! I didn't see you there! Oh how stupid of me!" the faun rambled, pressing his hands to his cheeks in dismay.

"Don't worry. I was in the way. It wasn't your fault," Peter reassured him.

"Are you all right, sire?" Stilian asked, his voice laced with worry.

Peter waved the question off with one hand as Rachel swung his arm around her shoulders so she could support him. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Battle wound, is all."

"Battle? Is there fighting in your land?" a dwarf piped up.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. If you please, I need to get him-" Rachel began but Stilian jumped in again, cutting her off.

"We must get you to a healer, Your Majesty!" It seemed the title had been reinstated despite possible confusions. Rachel grit her teeth, but silently acknowledged Stilian didn't know she had trained at one of the best women's medical schools in Europe. He didn't even know what Europe was.

"That won't be necessary-" Again, she was cut off, only this time by Peter.

"That's all right. Rachel here is a nurse." At the confused looks all around, he amended, "A healer." Heads were nodded and people stepped back so the two could pass through.

"Is there anything you'll be needing, Lady Rachel?" Kaili inquired.

"Warm water and fresh bandages, thank you." Rachel imagined it would remain strange to hear 'lady' before her name, but she shrugged it off, her focus on taking care of Peter. The queen nodded, bustling down to the kitchens to kindly take care of the errand herself. Stilian dispersed the group, saying he would be sure to inform them of the High King's condition in the morning. Rachel tightened her grip on the back of Peter's navy tunic as she helped him walk to the doors. She understood his need to retain dignity, especially if he really was this High King, but he was making it very difficult on them both. He bowed slightly at the door before she managed to drag him from the hall. Rounding the corner and pausing at the base of the first flight of stairs, she huffed.

"Who's brilliant idea was it to put us on the third floor?" she groaned, "And why can't they have elevators here?"

"We don't have electricity. That's why," Peter snapped, his free hand still clenching at his ribs. Rachel's face softened and she sighed.

"Right. No Franklin; no Edison." So she began hauling him up the stairs, one painful step at a time.

It seemed a century before they finally reach the last red velvet-covered stair and both sagged with relief at the top, leaning heavily on a combination of the railing and each other. Breathing heavily with Rachel's head resting in the crook of his neck and her arms wrapped one around his waist so she could grip the banister and the other partially around his back, Peter caught a whiff of that heavenly lavender perfume she seemed to have always hovering around her. A few strands of red auburn hair brushed his cheek and he felt the stirring somewhere in his abdomen he hadn't felt since that Islander duchess had come begging for help for her people. She had really been something and never had he met anyone that could set his skin on fire the way she had. Yet here he was with a lovely Brit in his arms, emotions clawing at the surface. Peter took a deep breath and steadied himself as Rachel drew away. He hoped she couldn't see what he was desperately sure was obvious he was feeling but her face showed nothing but exhaustion.

"Come on, soldier boy. Let's get you fixed up," she almost whispered, slinging his arm back over her shoulder so they could make their way down the hall to his room.

Pushing the door open with her backside and turning to let Peter in, Rachel gasped. "My god! Is each room in this place bigger than the last?"

Peter chuckled through his pain, heaving himself gingerly onto the bed. "Imagine this place to the eye of a thirteen-year-old kid."

Rachel eyed him carefully, grateful the bandages and water had already been placed on the bed table. He stripped his tunic off, leaving him only in a pair of tight, black breeches before settling back against the mountain of pillows. She undid the dressing she'd put on early that morning when they were still in England and tossed the bloody gauze into an empty bowl. Not until she was cleaning the fresh blood inflicted by the silver tray from his chest, did she speak. "See, that's the part that doesn't make sense to me."

"What?" Peter grimaced as blood oozed onto her finger and she wiped it off on the old bandage.

"How can they believe you're this Magnificent High King who reigned for fifteen years when you're only seventeen? Lord, we must have just disappeared! I wonder who saw. They all must be so worried we'd been kidnapped or something dreadful!" Satisfied with her work, she set to redressing the wound.

Peter started to answer with confusion but the lines in his face smoothed with realization. "Oh Rachel. I've been such an arse." Her eyes widened at his confession and the touch of his hand on her cheek. Sighing, he explained, "I was only thirteen when my siblings and I first came here and, yes, we reigned for fourteen years. But when we went back I was just thirteen again, evacuated from London to a lofty old house in the country."

Rachel's brow wrinkled as she finished the dressing and twisted so she was leaning on the edge of the bed. Running her fingers over the paisley patterned bedspread, she asked, "What do you mean?"

"Time passes differently here. See, no matter how long we're allowed to stay, only seconds will pass there."

Rachel's eyes widened in comprehension. "So no one will even know we were gone?"

Peter nodded, reaching for her hand without thinking. "Exactly. I should have told you that days ago. That must be what you've been so worried about."

Rachel watched as he wound his fingers between hers, not once even realizing what he was doing. Crunching the numbers quickly in her head, she announced, "So you're really ten years older than me."

Peter chuckled. "Yes, I suppose so."

"I'm sorry I said you were immature," she began but rephrased, "No, I'm not. You are. But I'm sorry I said it without knowing anything about you."

"Mmm. Gee, thanks." His voice was softer all of a sudden and she knew he'd realized what she was letting him do. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, gently pulling her closer. Her eyes remained on their hands, picking out his years of scars she had never noticed before. Knowing what she did, it was obvious. She had seen it in him that very first day. That elusive something she hadn't been able to put her finger on. Now she knew. It was experience. By the way he was subtly shifting toward her and his hand was straying up her arm, it was experience he was willing to share with her.

Rachel's eyes fluttered shut as he warmed her cheek with his palm. A refusal was on the tip of her tongue or a biting remark to discourage him, but his lips met hers before she could voice either. It was soft but not really tender. He parted her lips and she was sure he could taste the denial she'd been about to give him. Rachel wanted to fight him, to tell him no, but with his warm lips against her own all she could do was give in. Surrender. Albert had never kissed her like that. It had always been polite and chaste. Just once she wanted to feel what all the giddy schoolgirls had always swooned over. She wanted what Peter could give her; what it seemed he wanted her to have. Common sense took over and Rachel pulled away, banishing those wants. This was Peter, for heaven's sake! He may have been a king to everyone else in the palace, but to her he was just an overly-stubborn schoolboy with a misplaced sense of duty and honor, she reminded herself firmly.

She stood and gathered the bowls on the nightstand. "You can put them outside the door. A maid'll get them in the morning," Peter murmured, stilling propped forward on his elbow.

Closing the door behind her she whispered a good night she was sure he didn't hear and deposited the bowls of bloody water and bandages on the floor. Wandering to her room, however, her fingers touched her lips and all those wants flooded back. And that had been far from an honorable kiss. With a ghost of a smile, brought on again by Peter's audacity, she fell to sleep on top of the covers.


	8. The Night Before

The Night Before

Rachel awoke with a blush on her cheeks, their goodnight kiss the first thing to pop into her mind. She could still feel Peter's lips as keenly as though he were right there and her dreams had done nothing to lessen the fog enveloping her common sense. It had to be this place. She never behaved this way in England even when she'd _been_ in a romantic relationship. Rachel shook her head to clear it, dragging herself from the all-too-comfortable bed at a knock on the door. She stepped over her puddled, burgundy gown and Peter's cardigan, which seemed to have slipped from the bed the night before, to answer it.

Salia beamed, a tray of breakfast in her arms. "Milady," she greeted.

Rachel ran a hand over her face and through her hair. "Salia. Come in." Salia stepped inside, quickly setting the tray on a small table by the balcony and hurrying to straighten up the room. She folded Peter's cardigan and put it on a shelf in the armoire, along with the dress.

Rachel yawned. "What's happening today, Salia?" she asked, hungrily setting to the eggs on her plate.

"The archery tournament is starting, miss. Will you be attending with the High King?" Rachel made a noncommittal sound that Salia took as a 'yes.' "Would you like me to pick out a gown for you, miss?"

"No, that's all right. I'll do it. Thank you, Salia." Salia took in Rachel's mood, for as the effects of her dreams had worn off she had grown irritable and lost in thought. The nymph curtsied and made her exit to leave Rachel in peace.

Throwing open the stately armoire, Rachel gasped. She hadn't realized how many dresses Peter had ordered for her. There were at least 15 different gowns of various fabrics and colors. She ran her fingers over the velvets and silks, taking solace in a woman's indulgences and pushing away those of a woman _and_ a man.

Peter knocked hesitantly on Rachel's door and was met by a grunt he sincerely hoped was welcoming. Still, he ducked warily as he entered, afraid she might throw something at him. She had remained relatively calm last night but, then, she had had plenty of time to mull over his actions. A small voice tartly pointed out they were _her_ actions as well and he was forced to remember the way she'd let him in without thought, not to mention the taste and feel of her lips between his own. Peter rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, a headache sneaking up on him.

Rachel stood in the middle of the room, her fingers threaded through her hair, in only her slip. "Rachel! You're not even dressed yet! What have you been _doing_ all morning?"

"I don't know what to wear," she whined, "I've got it down to three, but I just don't know." Peter rolled his eyes and pulled the chair away from the vanity.

"Show me." Rachel stared at him, confused. "Come on! What are you waiting for? I have two sisters; I've probably picked out more dresses than Corin ever took off. And that's saying something."

She stared a moment longer, the innuendo confusing but not shocking her. Shrugging, she picked a green dress and slipped it over her head. Holding the laces tight with one hand, she twirled. "Yes? No?"

Peter contemplated the dress a moment, rubbing a knuckle across his bottom lip. "If you're wearing those shoes it'll be too short." He nodded to the ankle boots sitting by the bed. Rachel glanced between him, the shoes and her hem.

"Oh. I hadn't even thought of that," she mumbled, letting go of the laces so she could step out of it. Peter hid a grin behind his hand as she went for a pale blue one. It wasn't too formal and had a navy peasant bodice that laced in back.

"That one. Let's go." He stood, tossing her the matching bag from the vanity.

"But what about the white one?" she protested, catching it easily.

"This one's fine." Gesturing to the laces she still held in her hand, he said, "Do you need help?"

With a glance over her shoulder, she nodded. He abruptly settled his hands on her waist, turning her so her back was to him. His hands instantly felt like they were on fire and he wondered if she could feel it or if it was all in his head. He quickly threaded the white, leather laces through the small holes. He had years of experience at this, but, still, it was different than tightening Lucy's bodice.

"You might want to hold on," he said as he reached the top. Rachel shot him a glare over her shoulder and he shrugged. "It's your pancreas." Grudgingly, she wrapped her hands around the bedpost. He knotted the leather around his fingers and pulled.

"Peter!" she gasped, one hand flying to her considerably smaller waistline.

"Oh relax; it's not even that tight. Come on. We're going to be late." He grabbed her hand and practically dragged her from the room.

Rachel was uncomfortable. The archery was fascinating, to be sure, and the colorful gowns and hats decorating the stands were extravagant. It wasn't the event, however, that had her fidgeting in her seat. It was the people she sat with. Peter was on her right and Stilian and Kaili beside him. They sat in a large box raised above the tournament grounds. The snow-covered field below them was dotted with targets and archers in the colors of their country and the four chatted amongst themselves as they watched arrow after arrow land in the center red. Kaili was awed by the costumes of the visiting Calormenes and 'oohed' and 'aahed' over each of them. Stilian's eyes never left her, his hand gently caressing hers and a small smile on his face as though she were the light of his world. Rachel swallowed hard as she saw him lean in for a soft kiss.

Peter watched her from the corner of his eye, shifting, straightening her dress. She folded her hands, then changed her mind and rested them on the arms of the chair. Reaching out a hand, he gently caught her arm. "Hey. Are you all right?"

Rachel looked up sharply at him. "Yes, of course. Why?"

His brow knit together in some sort of concern. "You just seem a bit uncomfortable, that's all."

She sighed. "I feel like an intruder," she confessed, subtly nodding in the direction of the king and queen.

Peter slid his hand down her arm to place it over hers. His fingers dove between hers so they brushed the soft, tender skin there and curled her hand into his own. "No need. They're lost in their own little world. I don't think you could disturb them if you set off a whole row of roman candles along that railing there."

Rachel chuckled, a small grin spreading across her face. "No, I suppose not." She glanced up at him but didn't meet his eyes, choosing a spot over his shoulder to stare at instead.

Anxiously, he chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Rachel, I-"

"You know, I'm afraid I don't much understand how this tournament works. It seems to me they're _all_ hitting the targets," she interjected, pretending she hadn't heard him. Peter let out a frustrated rush of air through his nose but set about explaining the rules to her.

It was hours later and dusk had begun to fall on the crowd. Rachel clapped along with the others at a particularly splendid shot but her enthusiasm was waning. She was sore from sitting most of the day and wearing the unfamiliar corset all of it. Peter had eased her concerns regarding her family's worries about her the night before but, of course, his comforts had brought on a whole new set of stressful contemplations. At least it seemed she would soon get her pined-for silence and solitude as supper was to be a quiet affair. Rachel fully intended upon taking her meal in her rooms and following up with a soothing bath. Perhaps the relaxing combination would let her forget Peter and home for at least a little while. Lady Fate, that most fickle of friends, intervened at precisely the wrong moment, however, and ruined Rachel's chances of a pleasantly lonely night.

"Rachel!" She squeezed her eyes shut, willing away a headache before it started. She turned from her place halfway across the field back to the palace to find Tal skidding to a stop in the snow. He reached out to steady himself, catching her shoulder.

"Hullo Tal," she greeted courteously.

"Good evening! I wondered if you didn't already have plans for supper?" he inquired, releasing her.

"Well, I-"

"I thought perhaps you would join me?" he added unnecessarily, cutting short what would have been a polite rejection.

"We'd love to, Mr. Dinerek!" Peter chimed suddenly, causing Rachel to jump as he rested his hand against the small of her back. "It is Dinerek, isn't it?" Rachel fought the urge to roll her eyes at his blatant mispronunciation.

"Actually, the 'i' is short," Tal corrected him, respectfully quiet. Peter apologized, too sincere to truly be.

"I'm sure Rachel will want to change first, so we'll be a little while, I'm afraid. You'll wait?"

Tal grit his teeth, unable to refuse the legendary High King. "Of course, sire. I would be honored." With a final bow to the two of them, he spun on his heel in irritation and marched in the direction of the tents. Rachel mirrored the action as she set off for the palace, her step and stance angry.

Jogging to catch up, Peter started to ask what he'd done wrong or something equally patronizing question but she held up a hand. "Don't _even_! That invitation was for me and me only, Peter! Where do you get off thinking you can _do_ that?" she demanded, never pausing to look at him as she strode up the hill.

"Oh come on, Rachel!"

"It was a personal invitation and you had no right to step in like that!"

"You aren't naïve enough to think he just wanted supper and deep conversation, are you?"

Rachel stopped stock-still and slowly turned to face him. For a moment she stared as though she couldn't quite find the right words to throw at him. "No, Peter, I'm not. In fact, I was going to turn him down until you took the wheel. Though, granted, that was more because of you than him. But you've just changed my mind. I think I do want a little _'supper and deep conversation'_ tonight. Thank you, Peter," she smirked. She started to walk away but turned back. "Oh and don't bother changing. I don't think we'll miss you."

Rachel held her purple skirts up to avoid dragging them across the snow-covered grass as she made her way to the mass of tents set up in the orchards behind the palace. A few individuals recognized her as having sat with the kings and queen at supper the night before and acknowledged her as such but she went virtually unnoticed as she searched for Tal. It occurred to her more than once she should have asked the surgeon where his tent was, but the thought inevitably turned to Peter so she quickly shoved it aside. Looking up at the names on the side of each tent instead of in front of her, she soon tripped. Rachel gasped, barely steadying herself before hitting the ground. She glanced down at the cause of her mishap and blushed.

"Hello Alp," she greeted the Fox. He grinned toothily at her.

"Hello yourself. I told you you weren't from Archenland."

"Yes, well, I already knew that. But would you really have accepted I was from another world without thinking me insane? _I _think I'm insane. For instance, I'm standing here in the middle of an orchard after an argument with an idiotic High King and his ego, talking to a fox!"

"If it were anybody else, I'd take offense. Now, what were you doing looking at the sky instead of your feet?"

Rachel sighed. "I'm looking for a friend's tent and I'm afraid I forgot to ask directions."

"A friend?"

"Tal Dinerek. He's a surgeon from the Islands," Rachel explained.

"Rachel?" The woman in question glanced over her shoulder.

"Tal! I was looking all over for you," she admitted, turning to face him.

"As was I for you. I realized after my quick departure that I had forgotten to tell you where I would be." Tal glanced over her shoulder and frowned as Alp trotted away, leaving them alone. "I thought the High King had planned to join us?"

Rachel bit back a smirk, a retort and a sigh. "He had," she said simply, leaving the explanation up to her host's imagination.

Tal eyed her a moment before a rueful smile appeared on his face. He offered her is arm and she curtsied dramatically before taking it, drawing a deep chuckle from him. With an effort she ignored, Rachel pushed Peter from her mind, intent on having a good time.

The meal was simple but she couldn't deny he was an excellent cook. Tal's tent was made of the same ivory burlap most were made of but had a hole cut in the very top of the ceiling so he could have a campfire inside. A pair of chairs sat beside a trunk multi-tasking as a desk and table and a sturdy cot occupied one wall. Most of the snow on the grass had been brushed outside so the tent had a floor of pure green. Rachel had yet to become accustomed to eating without a fork, but slowly she was mastering it and Tal's smaller dinner daggers fit more easily in her hand than those in the palace. They ate in a companionable silence for most of the meal but finally Tal spoke up.

Clearing his throat, he asked with trepidation, "Lady Rachel, I fear I must ask a terrible question to satisfy my sensibilities." Rachel raised an eyebrow but motioned for him to continue. He nervously chewed on the end of his dagger. "Are you and- Am I- The High King-"

Rachel bit her lip. "You're not stealing Peter's girl. I promise."

Tal sagged with relief. "I was beginning to fear for my neck," he admitted with a hoarse laugh.

Smirking, she placed her hand over his. "Don't worry. He's mostly bark."

"But he's still the High King."

Rachel shrugged. "He's just a boy where we come from." At Tal's startled look, she elaborated, "Peter's only 17. He's just a kid."

"But he is the greatest king our land has known! You mean to tell me he is _insignificant_ in his own home?"

"Well… I wouldn't say insignificant," Rachel flushed, "You know what? I don't really want to talk about Peter. Do you mind?"

Tal turned his attention on the remainder of his supper. "Did you enjoy the archery today?" Rachel smiled at his easy transition and nodded.

They talked well into the night about everything under the sun – or moon as it was – over steaming cups of tea. Not once did anything remotely Peter-related come up nor did he cross Rachel's mind. It was a wonderful sort of freedom not thinking about him. It seemed over the past few days he was all that had occupied her thoughts. Suddenly realizing the fire had almost gone out, Tal glanced at the hourglass and gasped.

"Aslan, it's late!" Rachel looked at the sand, almost through trickling down and at her watch, which read 3:00.

"Oh my, so it is. I guess I should be going. People will talk as it is," Rachel joked grudgingly, standing and brushing off her skirts.

Tal stood and offered his hand. "Would you like me to walk you back to the palace?"

"No, no, that's all right. I _think_ I can find my way." Rachel smiled as he took her hand and bent to kiss it.

"Well, in that case, good night and sweet dreams. Surely mine will be filled with you." She smirked at the slight tickle of his lips on her fingers and when he stood to pull away she tightened her grip. With his hand in hers, she gently pulled him toward her. She tilted her chin up to him and, swallowing hard, he placed his hands on her cheeks. It was a faint brush, the lightest of touches, and then he was pulling away. So unlike Peter's thorough invasion. Rachel's thoughts unwillingly flickered to the taste of him. The sensual caress of his lips on her own and the heady feeling of a paralyzed mind… Her eyes drifted shut in pleasure for a brief moment and she murmured a "thank you" before she snapped to her senses. Tal had dropped his hands to his sides and stepped away from her.

"I should go," she half-whispered, reaching for her bag. Tal nodded shortly but caught her arm as she passed him.

"Are you sure you and His Majesty…" Rachel pursed her lips and sniffed.

"I can assure you the High King has no romantic interest in me." Rachel couldn't meet his eyes, certain he would read her turmoil. Instead her gaze roved to the makeshift table and his mostly empty wine goblet. With shaking hands she lifted it to her lips and gulped down the remainder of the bitter liquid before turning and marching swiftly from the tent and into the cold night.

Rachel dragged herself up the stairs one exhausting step at a time. She came to a stop at the last one and sank onto it. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the railing and let her head fall into her hands. Her hair streamed through her fingers in loose chunks, covering her face. She was startled from her quiet introspect by a grunt. Looking up sharply, she noticed Peter for the first time, sitting on the floor beside her rooms. His head lolled to one side, jolting him awake. He groaned, slowly focusing on Rachel, kitty-corner to him.

He blinked so there was only one of her and then glanced at the large clock on the wall opposite the grand staircase. Peter gasped and flipped his head around to stare wide-eyed at her.

"It's 3:00 in the morning!" he murmured.

"Yeah, I know."

Peter took a shaky deep breath and let it out. He glanced at the floor between them. "Lucky you." Rachel glared and threw her bag at him. It bounced off his knees and he caught it in one hand. "What? You come in at 3:00 in the morning and expect me to believe you didn't get lucky?"

"Yes, Peter, I do. Because believe it or not, there are men out there who can talk to a woman and not just push her up against a wall."

"Really? And here I thought we were all-"

Rachel held up a hand. "_You_ are."

They sat there, staring at each other, the ticking of the monstrous clock on the wall the only sound. "You waited here all night for me?"

He nodded. "I did."

She looked away, unable to bear his face, for the candles threw a soft light on him and she swore she saw the king beneath the boy and the man beneath the king. Finally, she stood and scooted past him to her door. "Come on."

Peter raised an eyebrow and she rolled her eyes. "I have to change that dressing, you moron." Chuckling, he let her help him to his feet.


	9. Cowardice and Philosophy

**Cowardice and Philosophy**

The next two days of the archery tournament dragged on, one perfect shot after another. Rachel wanted to jump out of her skin. No matter how hard she tried, it was near impossible to avoid both Tal and Peter. Every time she turned around, there was one of them again. By the third and final day of archery, she was about ready to offer them both up as live targets.

Her plans for a soothing bath had been thwarted various times over those two excruciating days and she was resorting to desperate measures to be sure she would succeed. She had enlisted Salia's help in distracting Tal as the tournament ended and excused herself a few minutes early so Peter couldn't follow her as Stilian had requested he present the winning archer's prize. Rachel slipped back up to the palace with seconds to spare.

She sagged with relief against her door, locking it on the off chance Peter would decide to barge in. She had purposely worn a gown without a laced-up bodice so she could step out of it easily and left the chocolate brown dress on the floor in a heap. Shoes and clothes formed a haphazard trail to the screened tub in the corner. Salia had graciously prepared the bath for her and warmed it near to the boiling point so it would be sure to remain hot. Rachel swung her legs over the edge of the silver tub and sighed in pure contentment as she dipped into the steaming water. Flipping her hair behind her to keep it from getting wet, she settled in for a long, relaxing nap.

A gentle, insistent knock slowly pulled Rachel back to consciousness. Her eyes opened groggily as she realized the water was a tepid room temperature. The knocking registered and Rachel covered her face with her hands.

"Who is it?" she called out irritably.

"It's Kaili," a lilting voice answered from outside. Rachel shot out of the water, grabbing a towel as she went. She weaved her way through the messy room and pulled open the door, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry! I thought it was Peter!" she apologized.

Kaili's eyes widened. "Oh no, _I'm_ sorry! I didn't mean to drag you from your bath."

"No, no, that's all right. I'd been in much too long anyway. Come in, Your Majesty." Rachel pulled the door wider to let the queen in. Kaili complied, sweeping gracefully into the room.

"Oh please, dear, we're friends, right? Women, at least. 'Kaili' will do just fine."

Rachel laughed, shutting the door. "Of course. Won't you have a seat? Sorry about the mess."

"That's all right. My rooms look much the same most of the time," Kaili confessed with a girlish grin.

"Good to hear. Let me just put something on and I'll be right out." Rachel grabbed her dress from the floor and scooted behind the screen to slip into it. When she emerged, Kaili had lit a lamp to aid in the dim light of dusk and sat at the table looking out the window.

"Well! To what do I owe the honor?" she asked as she seated herself, folding her hands on the table.

"Oh, I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"All right?"

"You seemed awfully rushed today, that's all. I thought perhaps something was wrong."

Rachel blushed. "No, not _wrong_ per se; I was just frustrated."

"With what? Or whom?" Kaili raised an eyebrow knowingly causing Rachel to blush harder and look away out the window.

"I guess you know then," she mumbled.

"Well, I suspected. He's been a bit… overzealous these past few days," Kaili admitted.

"He's been suffocating is what he's been! They both have!"

Kaili paused. "Both?"

"Oh. Right. There's another one." Rachel rolled her eyes. "If I weren't so annoyed, I'd be flattered. Granted, one of them is just there to drive me crazy."

"Which one?"

Rachel shot her a confused look. "Well, Peter, obviously. I mean, there's certainly nothing _there_."

"There _isn't_?" Kaili gaped at her, shocked.

"No! Of course not- You thought Peter and I- really-" Rachel's laughter bordered on hysteria. "Certainly not! I mean, it was just one kiss! It didn't mean anything! I was there and he needed somebody and he doesn't want me with anybody else because he's just a good-for-nothing and-" Kaili stood and wrapped her arms around Rachel as she dissolved into frustrated tears.

"Shh… There, there. It's all right. Just let it out," she murmured, rubbing circles on her back. Rachel cried silently against her shoulder until her eyes were red and puffy but dry. She pulled away, wiping at her streaked cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she began but Kaili held up a hand.

"You obviously needed that," she declared as she pulled the bellpull by the bed. A few moments later a maid knocked at the door and Kaili called for a fresh pot of tea. "Now. What brought that on?" She placed a hand on Rachel's shoulder.

Rachel rested her head in her hands and her elbows on the table. "I don't know what to do, Kaili! I'm so confused. Here I am in another _world_. Maybe I'm dreaming. No, no, I'm just crazy."

Kaili scooted around to her side of the table as the maid brought in a steaming pot of tea. Pouring a cupful, she handed it to Rachel. "You're very much awake but I can't guarantee you're perfectly sane."

Rachel laughed softly and, sipping delicately at the hot liquid, asked, "Did Stilian chase you?"

"Chase me? You might say that. But like I said: I really came for a visit to Narnia and never left. We had something of an- unorthodox courtship." Kaili flushed, glancing into her teacup.

Rachel hid her smile behind her hand and took a sip, thinking. "When did you know? That he loved you, I mean?"

Kaili raised an eyebrow. "I think it was about the time he professed himself undyingly outside my window. He's never been one for subtleties."

"Oh." Rachel pursed her lips. "What about you? When did you know you loved him?"

"I think it was about the time he professed himself undying-"

"All right, all right, I get it." Rachel chuckled dryly.

"Really, Rachel, every love is different. I don't think Peter is the kind to stand outside a girl's window and read poetry, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel something."

"But he doesn't! He's just playing with me, toying with me, because he doesn't like Tal!"

"Tal?"

"He's a physician from some island or another. Sweet, compassionate, respectful. Everything Peter's not. Of course he doesn't like him," she scoffed.

"Of course he doesn't like him. He likes you."

Rachel laughed humorlessly. "No, he doesn't. He's a pain in the arse and enjoys being such."

"If you don't mind my saying so, you seem awfully insistent in pointing out time and time again how much you don't like him. You know, usually that means you're already madly in love." Kaili grinned impishly, winking.

"Kaili! That is most certainly not true! Peter's a- a- Well, he's a-"

"The love of your life?"

"No!" Rachel grumbled into her teacup, unable to come up with a suitably witty response.

"All right, maybe that's a bit much for now, but you do admit you have some feelings for the man?" Rachel rubbed her forehead.

"I don't know. I honestly just don't know. One minute I think I could drown in his eyes, no matter how corny it sounds, and the next I want to throttle him."

"Tell me, Rachel. Have you ever been in love before?"

She met the queen's eyes, startled. "I- I thought I was, once. But now I'm not so sure. It was certainly never this confusing."

Kaili smiled slightly as she stood. "Think about what you just said, dear. And then put on that lovely white, frothy concoction I saw in the armoire and join Peter for supper." With that, she was gone. Rachel stared at the closed door with confusion and trepidation and perhaps just a dash of excitement.

Rachel had taken Kaili's advice and worn the white gown. It fit to her curves as though it had been tailored for her and almost appeared to float around her. She admired what little of her form she could see in the vanity mirror, twisting this way and that. The dress was surprisingly teasing for such a medieval style and it crossed her mind that the seamstress must have been one of those nymphs she had seen wearing so very little. Rachel envied them their confidence. Even this more conservative gown by their standards pushed her boundaries. It wasn't that she was shy; more that she was anxious. Her little chat with the queen had led her down a path she hadn't thought about before. Glancing at the watch Peter had set for her, Rachel took a deep breath. Her hands traveled down her thighs, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles.

"Now or never," she murmured but made for her uniform folded neatly in the armoire instead of the door. She tugged a pack of cigarettes from the pocket and lit one by the hurricane lamp still on the table. Leaning against the arched doorframe that led out onto the balcony, she watched smoke rings filter out into the early night.

"They say those things'll kill you, you know," a voice said from across the room. Rachel jumped and spun around. Peter leaned in the doorway, one hand holding it open.

"Even nurses have vices," she retorted. Peter raised an eyebrow teasingly and she blushed, knowing what he was thinking. "What are you doing here, Peter?"

"I was told you were joining me for supper."

"Oh. Right." Rachel clenched her jaw and put her cigarette out on the stone wall. She dropped it in the empty bowl on the vanity and made her way around the bed. "All right, well, let's go." Peter stepped aside to let her pass but sucked in his breath as the brighter light in the hallway hit her.

"What?"

"Ah, nothing. You just look… lovely… is all," he stammered.

"Oh. Thank you." Rachel glanced away at the clock, the stairs, the candles. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image of Nurse Winstrom in that boring, white uniform into his head. _The last thing you need is an English girl,_ he reminded himself, pushing away the simultaneous thought of, _But why not? What's the harm?_ Sighing, he pulled the door shut with a bang that startled them both. He gestured to the stairs and she quickly started down them. As they hit the bottom step, she made to head for the banquet hall but the slight touch of his hand on the small of her back guided her down the hallway.

"Where are we going? I thought we were going to dinner!" she exclaimed, ignoring the heat his hand poured through her dress.

"We are. I thought you might enjoy some of the local color," Peter grinned.

"Local… color…?"

Fireflies and lanterns cast a romantic glow over the festivities in the orchard just beyond the clustered tents. Music floated on the cool air and traces of fresh snow decorated the trees. Fauns and dryads exchanged elaborate dances, each trying to outdo the other. Strong, Narnian alcohol fueled the cheers and merriment that circled the dancers and a bonfire kept those not light on their feet warm. Peter's hand slid into hers and, breaking into a smile, he pulled her over to a large kettle manned by several Mice.

"Two large bowls, friends!" The Mice nodded pleasantly and set about filling the order.

"There you are, Your Majesty! It has been our honor." One of the noble Mice bowed until his nose almost touched the ground. Peter followed suit with an exaggerated bow that had him pitching face-first onto the ground. Rachel giggled, reaching down to tug him up by the hand, but he pulled her down beside him instead.

"Ah! Peter!" He grinned cheekily and handed her a bowl of stew. Alp trotted over and lay down beside them, his head resting on his paws. Rachel tucked her dress around her knees and set about the delicious-smelling stew.

At least an hour passed before they spoke. Rachel leaned against Peter's shoulder, her hair brushing his chin. He noticed she no longer carried that heavenly lavender perfume about her before he realized that was in England. The small, glass bottle that probably held her favorite scent was miles and years away, out of reach. Peter shook himself, determined to keep to his previous vow not to think of England, but Rachel's very presence made it difficult.

Everything she did and everything she said served to remind him of that war-ravaged country and his equally torn-apart family, yet he was drawn to her. Something about her pulled him in and made him want to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. The one kiss they had shared refused to leave him alone. When she talked, he was mesmerized by her lips. When he slept, all he saw behind his closed eyelids was moonlit auburn hair on his pillow. And when he saw her with that irritatingly perfect physician, it made him want to punch a wall.

The sound of her voice suddenly broke into his ponderings, "I love children."

Peter's brow knit in confusion and he glanced down at her. "What?"

Laughing softly, she gestured to a group of children playing between the dancers as a little boy wrapped his arms around a little girl and kissed her cheek. "I love children. People think they're innocent but they're not. That's what makes them so incredibly endearing, really. They experience our entire range of emotions: joy, sorrow, hate. Love. The only difference between us 'grown-ups' and them is that they have the courage to act on their feelings."

"And we don't," Peter finished quietly. She nodded, shifting her weight uncomfortably. He stopped her moving away with a hand on her far arm. "Rachel, I- Come on. Let's dance." He changed his thought mid-sentence, the terrifying concept of rejection rearing its ugly head, and hopped to his feet, extending a hand to her.

She stared at it and then his face. "You said you don't like to dance," she pointed out.

"No, I didn't! That's Edmund! But don't let him fool you. He'll dance around in his underpants if he thinks it'll impress a pretty girl."

Rachel swallowed a laugh, glancing to the fire and back to him. "No, really. You told me you weren't going to go to the dance because you didn't like all this modern- Oh. I see." With pursed lips she pushed herself up, ignoring his hand, and dusted herself off. "Shall we?"

A smile crossed Peter's lips and he caught her reluctant hand in his, pulling her into the circle of dancers. He wrapped an arm around her waist, picking up the beat as he swung her around and around. Her dress swirled around their feet and her long, curly hair bounced loose from its clip. Rachel laughed merrily as he lifted her off her feet and twirled her around in his arms as the song ended. The last note scattered to the edge of the lessening crowd and she slid back down to earth agan, her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. Eyes traveling over his face, she murmured softly, "You need a haircut."

"Maybe you should take care of that," he whispered back, leaning closer.

"Maybe I should." Rachel tilted her head to the side, her eyelids dropping shut.

"Rachel! I thought you might tell us about Spare Oom!" a voice called out and the two sprang apart, though Peter's hand remained at her waist.

"Excuse me?" She swallowed, blinking, and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"A story? About your world. So little is known about where the Kings and Queens of Old came from! Such as yourself, of course, Your Majesty," Alp interjected with a respectful nod of his head.

"You want _me_ to tell you? But why not Peter?" Rachel protested.

"His Majesty has already told us a great many stories of the Golden Age and King Caspian. It is your turn!" somebody joked.

Rachel shot Peter a worried glance, almost asking permission to speak of England. He shrugged noncommittally and looked away. "Um, all right, I guess." Someone pulled over a stool for her and she sat down, tucking her skirts around her.

"Let's see. Ah… My, I don't know where to begin. What would you like to know?"

"What are the people like?" a dryad asked.

"Well, they are much like the people here, I suppose. It's a very different culture and there are only humans and animals who don't speak, but they act the same. Emotionally, I mean."

"Only _dumb _beasts?"

"Mhmm," Rachel nodded her confirmation.

"What about the music?" from a faun.

"Oh it's very different! It's called jazz and it's very upbeat. Lots of horns and love songs," Rachel smiled, her eyes brightening a bit.

"Horns in the music?"

"Yes. And we use the radio to make announcements instead of messengers." Seeing their blank stares, she explained, "It's a little box that you can turn a dial on and sound comes through it. Music, news, that sort of thing." Most of them still looked confused, but a few pretended to understand what she meant.

"They say the Kings and Queens always came wearing strange clothing," a dwarf recalled.

"That's true. In England, men wear suits or uniforms, like loose breeches and a coat and women do sometimes too."

"The women wear breeches?"

"Sometimes." A handful looked scandalized but most of the women seemed to take kindly to the idea.

"What about the stars?" a centaur asked from the back.

"The stars?"

"Centaurs study the stars," Peter grunted in explanation, his chin in his hand.

"Oh. Well, I don't know much about constellations but I'm almost certain we have many different from those you have here. There's Thunderbird and Aquarius and Orion, the hunter. Every night I always look out my window and find Orion because he's the easiest to spot. He has three bright stars that make up his belt.

"Then there is the Lyre. It has a terribly sad story. Orpheus was the greatest musician in the world and his love had been taken in death by the god of the underwold, Hades. Orpheus played the most beautiful melody ever heard and melted Hades' heart so he would free his love, but Orpheus broke the pact that he would not look at her until they reached the surface again. Hades pulled her back to the underworld and Orpheus didn't see her again until he died. They say the gods put the Lyre in the sky to remind us of the power of true love."

Alp wiped a tear from his eye with his paw, sniffling. "That's a beautiful story," he said hoarsely.

Rachel smiled, her eyes crinkling. "Yes, it is." She glanced over at Peter with his clenched jaw and fists and the corners of her mouth turned down slightly.

"Tell us more, Lady Rachel!" "Yes, tell us about your lives in, what did you call it again?"

"England. I'm from London, actually, which is in England. It's the capitol city. Peter, here, is from near London, I believe. Hertfordshire, is it?"

Peter was on his feet in an instant, hands clenching and unclenching. "It's Finchley," he spat out, "But I'm not from anywhere near London. I'm Narnian, dammit!" With that, he turned heel and stormed away, his angry footsteps evident in the smashing about of snow and leaves.

Rachel stood, one hand raised to stop him but he was already gone. "Peter, wait! Peter!" She glanced over at the astonished group, thankful most had already gone to bed. "Excuse me." Rachel lifted her skirts, darting in the general direction Peter had taken. She ran, squinting against the dark.

"Peter? Peter, please. Don't be ridiculous. You're far too sensitive," she called, knowing he was nearby.

"I am not," he insisted, stepping out from behind a tree into the dim moonlight, his arms crossed defiantly over his chest.

She heaved a sigh. "Yes. You are. You're a fool who doesn't want to grow up."

"Again."

"Grow up again."

Peter stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back. "What made you tell the story about Orpheus and his bride?"

"Why not?"

"I don't know. You've been very philosophical this evening."

"Is that a problem?"

He shook his head. "No. It's just curious, that's all. You're usually very straightforward. Don't have any problems making yourself heard. But it seems to me you're dodging something."

Rachel tensed and her posture straightened, immediately defensive. "I've been thinking the same about you all evening."

"Have you now?" His voice was softer all of a sudden and he was too close but she couldn't make herself move away.

"Yes," Rachel whispered.

Peter brought a hand up and lightly ran his fingers across her hairline. "And what do you think it might be that I've been avoiding?"

"I don't- I don't- I'm sure I don't know." Her eyes were heavy but through the tiny slits she could still see through, she could only focus on his lips.

"Neither do I." His voice was quiet and the cold breeze melded it with the gently falling snow. Rachel's hands steadied her on his arms as his lips ghosted across her forehead. "Neither do I," he whispered again. They both knew it was a cowardly lie.


	10. Like A Romance Novel

**Like A Romance Novel**

Minutes and hours tripped and stumbled over one another, meshing into one long train of shared glances and petty arguments. The moment Rachel thought Peter might be worth the aggravation, he would have to go and remind her exactly why she couldn't stand him. It was almost as though he were deliberately sabotaging anything they might have.

For instance, the day before the five-day jousting tournament was to begin, he took her with the men when they went out with the Falcons. She ungracefully tripped over her feet and grabbed onto his arm in a vain attempt to steady herself, thus pulling him down with her. His very touch had pinned her to the snow but she hadn't noticed the cold. In fact, it had felt rather warm out. That night, however, Peter drank so much ale she would have had to drag him up the stairs to his chamber if she hadn't been so mad and left him in the dining hall all night.

An excessively loud bang dragged Peter into a hazy consciousness. He groaned and painfully opened one eye. Rachel swam into focus and even through his hungover vision he could see her irritation in the clench of her jaw. Slowly it registered that his cheek was plastered against the rough wood of the tabletop and he forced himself to lift his heavy head. Another groan followed the first and he covered his face with his hands.

"You're mad at me," he mumbled.

"Congratulations on stating the obvious, you've just won a free hangover," Rachel snapped back.

"Stop yelling. I can hear you all too well as it is."

"That's insobriety talking. If I lower my voice any more, people are going to think we're arranging a secret tryst after the way you carried on last night." She finished stirring the pitcher she had initially woke him with and, pouring him a stein, slammed it down on the table in front of him. "Drink."

"You're angry with me and you think I'm going to drink just anything you put in front of me? I'm not stupid."

"For heaven's sake, Peter, I'm not poisoning you, no matter how much I may like to at the moment. It's my job and my instinct to take care of everyone else, whether they're an arrogant ass or not." Rachel rubbed her forehead as though she were sharing in his self-inflicted pain. "So drink."

Peter stared, unconvinced, into the murky tar in his glass but took a reluctant sip. He scrunched up his nose, shooting her a dirty look. Rachel smirked. "I never understood why these things had to taste so bloody terrible," he complained.

"Get drunk often?" Rachel raised an eyebrow in challenge as she pulled out a chair across from him. Peter glared at her over the rim of his mug.

"And you never do?" he shot back, thinking of the bourbon bottle under her bed. Rachel blushed, obviously thinking the same thing.

"That's different," she protested lamely.

Peter raised his eyebrows but let the subject drop. Noticing the strange, morning light shining through the windows, he asked, "How early is it, anyway?"

"About six. I figured you would want to be woken up before somebody important stumbled across the High King passed out in the dining hall."

Peter winced. "Speaking of which, I ought to get cleaned up before we break the fast." He pushed himself up from the table, closing one eye against the onslaught of pain and light. "I'm getting too old for this," he grumbled before too quickly holding up a hand, "Don't say a word." Rachel bit her lip to hold back a smile.

Peter held himself up by the edge of the vanity, staring blankly into the mirror. Honestly, he couldn't say what had gotten into him the night before. He wondered if there was something in particular he had said or if Rachel was just mad at him in general. Her words made him think he must have made quite a fool out of himself, far besides his alcohol intake. Peter wished he could see past the fog clouding his memory so he would at least know what exactly it was he had said or done. He really had made a mess of things now, hadn't he?

He met his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror and his jaw clenched. How was he supposed to compete in the joust looking – and feeling – like this? It wasn't expected of him, but it had been too many years since he'd held a lance in his hand and far more since he had actually won a tournament. Without Ed there, he had thought he might have a fair chance, but now…

A knock came at the door and Peter straightened, adjusting the tunic he would wear under his armor. He threw the door open to reveal the last person he expected to see: Tal.

"Your Majesty, I wondered if I might speak with you for a moment?" The man looked more tired and angry than Peter had ever seen him.

He sighed. "Yes, yes, of course. Come in." Peter stepped aside to allow the surgeon entrance. Tal walked inside, crossing his arms uncomfortably as he went. Peter shut the door and leaned against it.

"I assume you're here because of something I did last night?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I don't mean to be rude, sire, but Lady Rachel was very upset when she left. Very upset with _you_," Tal explained.

"Yes, I know." Peter ran a hand over his face. "I know it sounds like an excuse, but, to be honest, I don't remember much past my fourth or fifth pint. I didn't dance on any tables, did I?"

Tal almost cracked a smile. "No. But there might have been some garbled variation on a declaration of love to Rachel."

Peter stared at him, mortified. "I did _what_?" he exclaimed, grimacing at the loud noise.

"Well, I don't think you ever actually said you loved her but it was rather implied in the way you insisted on doing everything for her and sitting next to her and, then, of course, there was when you kissed her."

"Oh my god." Peter covered his face with both hands and tipped his head back against the door. "I knew it must have been something dreadful but I never imagined… And for all her insisting we're not- or anything…"

"Are you jousting today?" Tal asked abruptly.

Peter made a face. "Yes. I can only imagine what that crowd is going to sound like in my head."

"Self-inflicted," Tal pointed out without sympathy. "It might do to apologize before you go out there. Don't let her think you're more concerned with adding another title to your name than with her. Sire."

Peter eyed him warily. "Shouldn't you of all people be infinitely glad I've made an idiot of myself?"

"Why?"

"Because you've been following Rachel around like a little, lost puppy dog since we got here." Peter folded his arms over his chest, straightening away from the door.

Tal scratched his head, looking out the window. "That's all fine, well and good but, despite all the odds, you're the only one she has eyes for. Trust me."

"What are you, crazy? The woman hates my guts. Especially now!"

"You'd be surprised. Besides, she's going to be stuck with you when you go back and I'll still be here."

"Fine. Be the bigger man. Impress her. But what in creation makes _you_ think she feels anything besides a deep-seeded wrath for me?"

"Tell me, Your Majesty. Do you love her?"

Peter stared at the man wide-eyed for a long moment. He opened his mouth to answer but the horns blew outside and he shook his head. "If you'll excuse me, I must take my leave. I do apologize for everything I said and did last night." With that, he almost calmly opened the door and walked out into the hall, leaving Tal standing there staring at the place the High King had stood in.

Peter marched purposefully down the grand hallway, taking Tal's advice no matter how he might feel about it. Stopping at Rachel's door, he knocked briefly.

"What, Peter?" her voice called irritably from inside.

"I just wanted to apologize before the tournament starts. I know it doesn't make up for anything but Tal told me what I did and I do feel awful if it means anything to you," he said, looking at his feet.

There was a shuffling inside but the door remained closed. "Aren't you at least going to open the door?"

"Go away, Peter. I'm letting you suffer all on your own."

He sighed in exasperation. "Oh come on, Rachel! I have to get down to the field. I'm late as it is. Can't you at least wish me luck?"

"Wish you luck on what?"

"In the joust! What else?" Peter rolled his eyes in spite of himself.

The door flew open and Rachel stared at him from the other side. "You're not com_peting_?" she stated in a question that resembled a shriek.

"Yes, of course."

"Peter! You're already hurt," she gestured to his chest where his wound was still on the mend, "and you're hungover! You can't fight!"

"I most certainly can. I'm fine, I tell you. Just a bit of a headache," he protested indignantly.

"I'm sure you _can_ but you _won't_. I won't let you kill yourself for a title."

"Are you forbidding me from competing?"

"That is exactly what I'm doing. You can watch, bet, cheer, do whatever it is you boys do but you had better not get out on that field, Peter Pevensie."

"If I twist that just right it sounds like a challenge. Cheerio!" Peter took off before she could reach out and grab him. Rachel heaved a sigh, slamming her door.

Rachel was pale and drawn when she arrived at the arena but she strode somewhat indignantly up to the box she shared with Stilian and Kaili. The two nodded to her in greeting as she took her seat beside them so she and Kaili sat on either side of the king. She paid little attention as Stilian grandly announced the start of the games. Her head ached through the first few contestants and only grew worse as the day went on. Half of her wanted to find Peter and wring his neck while the other half prayed he would not injure himself beyond repair. She felt strangled; her corset was too tight, though it was perhaps the loosest she had worn all week. She had been too preoccupied that morning to bother doing anything with her hair so it hung down around her shoulders in unkempt curls.

After what seemed an eternity, Peter's first ride was up. Rachel's knuckles were white as she gripped the arms of her chair. As Peter was handed his lance, he spared a glance her way. His eyes swept over her, remorse for his actions over the last week creeping into his heart. Peter shook himself; it wouldn't do to be distracted on his first ride of the day. One hand unconsciously rubbed across his wound as he watched his opponent prepare across the field. A centaur's horn blew and simultaneously they charged. Peter's lance hit the duke on the arm as he flew past, victorious. Confidence swelled and he inwardly scoffed at Rachel's warnings. He would be fine.

Kaili watched Rachel out of the corner of her eye, catching the way she leaned forward, tensing, as Peter completed his ride. The corners of the queen's mouth tipped up in a small, secretive smile.

By the end of the day, the only time Rachel could think of having ever felt more exhausted was her first day at the war hospital in Hastings. Having watched Peter nearly kill himself all day, she was a bundle of nerves. She called for supper in her room and collapsed into the soft, down mass that was her bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

The second day of the tournament arrived all too soon. Rachel dragged herself out of bed just as the horns blew outside. The air had turned frigid in the night and a crew of Fauns had been put together just to clear a path in the snowdrifts down to the arena. For a brief moment, Rachel had visions of ice skating in Hyde Park as she had done as a child. A smile crossed her face as she gazed out the window. The moment passed and she found herself again looking out on a world so very different from her own she felt a squeeze of homesickness on her heart. With a heavy sigh, Rachel slipped into the dress Salia had laid out for her early that morning before she had woken and stepped out into the empty hall.

Peter was up first that morning and he seemed near unstoppable. Perfect hit after perfect hit did nothing to soothe Rachel's fears, however. With each successful pass, her sense of dread only deepened. She had every faith in his abilities, but he was putting such strain on his wound, she knew he could only hold out so long. The day dragged on as its predecessor had and even Rachel's inexperienced eye noticed the way his lance drooped and his grip loosened. There were whispers in the crowd and Rachel grew tenser as Peter began to slip from the lead. Each time he lost a ride it was accompanied by her small, worried gasp.

At one point, just about one o' clock, she abruptly popped to her feet. Kaili and Stilian both looked over at her, startled. "I'm absolutely parched! Does anyone else want anything?" she announced, her voice a bit more high-pitched than usual.

Stilian's lips twitched. "We can just call to have someone send something up for you," he offered.

"Oh, no, no. I need to stretch my legs anyway. Really? Nothing for you two? All right, then." Without waiting for an answer she shot down the rough-hewn steps from their box. Trudging in meandering circles through the small paths cut in the waist-high snow, Rachel stumbled across a small group of Talking Animals selling hot cider from their cauldron. Knowing she didn't have any money, Rachel bit her lip and made to go around them but a kindly Badger stopped her.

"Free cider for the High King's lady?"

Rachel flushed and made to correct him, but she really was cold and thirsty and their cider smelled absolutely heavenly. She nodded, her teeth clenched to keep from chattering. "Thank you, sir. That would be lovely." A tall Ferret poured her a large mug and she took it gratefully, smiling her thanks. As she took a sip, she turned at the sound of footsteps.

"Rachel! I thought you would be up in the box," Tal exclaimed in surprise, taking a glove off to search for some money.

"I needed to move around a bit. It gets tiring sitting up there all day," she explained, not meeting his eyes.

Tal paid the Narnians and, taking a sip of the delicious cider, began to walk away, nodding for her to follow. Once they were a safe distance from earshot, he said, "You're worried about the High King."

"He's being an absolute buffoon."

Tal chuckled. "What makes you so distraught though? You look as though you might faint any minute now," he noted innocently, raising his eyebrows over the rim of his mug.

Rachel stared at him a moment before realization crossed her face. "Tal, we've been over this! Peter and I are only-"

"Only what? Friends? I've never met two people who called themselves friends that fought as much and as harshly as the two of you do."

"Well maybe I wasn't going to _say_ friends. Maybe I was going to say, um, professionals. Yes, that's it! He's a patient and I am only here to help him," Rachel finished definitely.

"Mhmm. I'm in the same field you are, you know, _and_ he's my king and I _still _don't have the same desperate fear for every last hair on his head as you do."

"I'm not desperate!"

Tal reached out a hand and, cupping her cheek in it, ran his thumb over the dark circles under her eyes. "Then what do you call these?" he murmured softly. "Rachel, you haven't slept in two days."

She looked away, sighing. "No need to tell _me_. I was there," she snapped.

Tal's lips tipped up in half a smile. "You don't need to protect me, Rachel. You'll be leaving soon and Peter will be there and I won't. But, then, if you haven't seen how he feels about you by now, maybe you never will." His hand dropped back to his side.

Rachel took a lingering sip of her cider, looking at but not really watching two Archenlanders go head to head. As one hit the ground, she turned back to him. "You're a good man, Tal. Far too good for me, that's for sure." She smiled, patting his chest.

Tal shook his head. "Nah. You're too good for either of us." He gently laid a hand on her shoulder. "They'll be wondering where you are." He nodded in the direction of the royal box. Rachel bit her lip, nodding. It was with a slightly lighter heart that she kissed his cheek and smiled her gratitude.

It was almost dusk and the last two opponents of the day were called up. Peter eyed the usurper of his lead with trepidation. The centaur was nearly as good as Ed had once been and with his aggravated injury, he didn't stand a chance. Peter sighed. With a glance towards the brilliant red rays of the setting sun, he reminded himself he could hardly back out now. The squire eagerly assigned to him a few days before patted his horse's neck.

"You'll do all right, sire, if you just keep to the left. You'll have to be quick; hit him before he hits you. He's fast on four feet, that one."

Peter nodded, his eyes still on his formidable adversary. "You give a nice pep talk, son," he half-grinned.

The young man chuckled. "I do my best, sire." He again patted the horse's sweating neck and stepped away.

Rachel rested her head on her fist, drained from admitted excessive worry. Her eyes began to drift shut but as Peter rode onto the field, she forced herself to sit up. The least she could do was stay awake for his last ride of the day. She watched through tired, blue eyes as the two warriors charged each other across the expansive field. It was in slow motion that the powerful centaur's lance collided squarely with Peter, knocking him off the horse with the ease one would brush away a fly.

The entire arena gasped and collectively sat forward. Rachel sprang from her seat to clutch the railing. Her cry of "Peter!" rang through the crowd with a poignant echo. She stared in shock and horror at Peter's motionless body. The High King had fallen.

The snow was melted and thrashed in a crooked line outside Peter's tent. Rachel paced back and forth, her hands mindlessly running up and down her arms to keep her warm. Night had fallen and only the moon and a few torches lit her well-worn path. Suddenly, Tal emerged from the tent and she descended on him as a moth to a flame or a magnet to the north.

"How is he?" she demanded, placing a hand on the physician's arm.

Tal shrugged. "Sore." Rachel's eyes narrowed and he sighed. "He's going to have to withdraw from the tournament. But, then, I think we all know you were going to make that happen anyway."

Rachel stepped back, picking at her sleeve. "But he'll live long enough for me to yell at him?"

"Yes. He will be just fine in a few weeks, _if _he rests."

She nodded. "Can I see him?"

"He might be a bit grouchy, but that's your call. And go easy on him. He's taken a bust to his pride." Tal grinned, laying a hand on her arm as he made his way out from the contestants' array of tents, where Peter had insisted on staying, despite the fact he had a far more comfortable room inside the palace. Stubborn, as always. Rachel took a deep breath and lifted the curtain to enter.

A rug formed the floor to keep away the dirt and the dew and furnishings decorated the small space. A second, light curtain separated the "living room" from the "bedroom." Rachel shed her shawl on a chair and peeked into the adjoining room. Peter lay on the extravagant mattress that had been set up for him, hands folded over the covers, drawn up to his chest.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his eyes closed. She folded her arms over her chest and stepped up to the foot of the bed. His eyes opened to meet hers.

Rachel shuffled her feet. "So am I." She held a hand up as Peter's brow knit in confusion. "For trying to take this away from you. I wanted to take away your pain but to do that I would have taken away everything else as well. I don't understand this place or your place in it, but I understand you love it as I love England. We'll count this a lesson learned."

Peter gave a brief smile and, for once, she swore it reached his eyes. "Apology accepted. But, really, I was just being stupid."

Rachel laughed and moved around to sit on the edge of the bed. Tracing the embroidered pattern with one finger, she said, "Well, that may be so, and is, but it still wasn't fair. You can't take away a man's will to protect him."

"Explain something to me, Rachel. You say you understand how I love Narnia because you love England." Rachel waited for him to finish but it appeared that was all he intended upon saying.

"I'm not sure what you're asking."

"And I'm not trying to be a pain in the neck when I say I still don't know how you can love and miss England so much when you have _Narnia_ right here beneath your feet. Nothing compares!"

Rachel allowed a small smile. "You love everything about Narnia; every last little detail." She paused for Peter to nod his agreement. "When you tell stories of the battles you fought in, I can see in the way you speak of them that you were scared witless at the time and the mere thought brings back memories that just might keep you up at night. But you wouldn't trade anything in the stars for the knowledge that you protected that which you love. The good with the bad, right? That's how England is for me. It's not perfect, but it's home."

Peter couldn't take his eyes from her face as she spoke. "When you put it like that I find myself missing Big Ben and King's Cross and Buckingham," he smiled. "Can you forgive me?"

Rachel's eyes shot to his face. "I can't say I'm not still upset about you nearly getting yourself killed, Peter, but there isn't anything to forgive, narrow-minded tendencies or otherwise."

"Not even a drunken kiss?" He raised an eyebrow.

Rachel bit the inside of her cheek. "Tal has a big mouth."

"Tell me, am I better kisser when I'm drunk or when I'm sober?" he teased, grabbing her hand. The serious mood in the tent dissipated with a few easy words.

"Well, considering you missed when you were drunk, I'd say sober." She winked, intertwining her fingers with his. Peter flushed and looked away.

"Not my finest moment," he mumbled.

Rachel's laugh bubbled up and soon they were both giggling into pillows to keep from waking the neighbors. As their mirth subsided, they sat there trying unsuccessfully not to smirk at each other. Her eyes traveled around the tent for fear if she looked him in the eye she would not be able to contain herself, humorously or romantically. Noticing a book on the nightstand, she picked it up and asked, "What's this?"

Peter glanced down and rolled his eyes. "Kaili brought it by. Said she wouldn't want me getting bored while I was bedridden. I asked her if you put her up to that comment."

She swatted at his arm as she thumbed the book open with one hand. "Have you even opened it?"

"Not exactly."

Rachel shook her head and waved a hand at him. "Scoot over." He shot her one of those looks that always earned him a glare. "It looks interesting and as it was meant for you I'm going to read to you."

"You're going to _read_ to me? Oh, come on, Rachel. Seriously?"

"Yep. And you're not even going to complain." She grinned cheekily at him and with another playful roll of his eyes he obligingly scooted over, mindful of his multiplying injuries.

Concern crossed her face but she pretended not to notice for the sake of the pride she had already wounded several times over the past few days. Instead, she settled herself beside him and opened to the first page in the book. As he listened to her soft voice and the devastatingly romantic story, which Peter insisted on noting several times sounded familiar, he realized something. Yes, she was English and she reminded him of things he didn't want to even think about. But, as he had silently admitted days before, there was really just something about her. He didn't mean to be corny, but truth be told, that's how he felt. It wasn't that she was stunningly beautiful, though she was. Nor was it that she was singularly articulate, though, again, she was. No, it was that, as she said of England, she wasn't perfect. She cared too much about everyone and could talk his ear off when she felt like it. She wasn't a particularly good dancer. She could be moody and temperamental. She was only human, after all. Without a doubt, that was the elusive something he hadn't been able to recognize in her before: she _was_ only human. Nothing spectacular or legendary. Just a simple girl in a complicated world.

Her own reading soon lulled her to sleep. Peter lay beside her, eyes on the ceiling, until her words trailed off and, glancing over, he realized she was out for the count. With a small smile, he slid from beneath the covers and retrieved an extra blanket from across the room. He slipped her shoes off and dropped them on the floor before tucking the thick coverlet around her and curling up behind her.

Early the next morning the squire found the two of them curved around each other, Peter's arm around her waist and her hand atop his. He let them sleep.


	11. Loving in the Moment

**Loving in the Moment**

The final day of the jousting tournament arrived with fanfare and excitement. A procession of the court followed by the kings and queen led the way to the arena. Rachel traipsed behind, preferring the company of Alp and Tal. As the three walked together through the snow, her arms swinging at her sides, she took in a deep breath of cold, winter air and thought of Peter. He rode just a little ways ahead on something of a magnificent, white stallion, crown atop his head in a most dignified manner. Rachel had smiled to see him so decked out.

The king in question glanced back over his shoulder at the three stragglers. Rachel threw her head back and laughed at something Alp had said and Peter crooked a small smile. He liked to see her happy. It had been a long time since he had liked sitting and watching someone laugh, cause unknown. Peter twisted back so he was facing forward, but his thoughts dwelled on the woman behind him. He wasn't naïve, nor young, despite what anyone might think, and he certainly wasn't unaware or ignorant of the emotions swirling inside him. Rachel was not the first girl he had fancied, as Lucy would put it. She was the first to incite such intense ponderings, however. Ed had always been the one to sit and moon over a woman, writing sonnets that never made much sense. For the first time, Peter found himself _not_ thinking his brother slightly daft.

His arrival at the noisy arena interrupted Peter's thoughts and soon he was being a bit too ceremoniously hauled up to the box. Rachel trailed just behind, having caught up in mock-fear Peter would bolt. She knew he didn't enjoy being cooped up and forced to only watch and not participate, though he had cooperated nicely the past two days. They took their seats and, as Stilian started the day off, Rachel glanced over at him, only to find him already watching her.

"What?" she asked quietly, unnerved by his gaze.

Peter half-smiled, reaching out a hand and taking hers in it. "Nothing." She didn't look convinced but he gave her hand a squeeze and turned his attention to the games.

Rachel found herself paying more attention to the calluses on Peter's palm as they brushed roughly over the back over her hand than to the commencing jousts and continued to study his profile from the corner of her eye after he looked away. She took in the way his eyes squinted against the glare of sunlight on snow and the way his hair flopped to one side no matter how much she knew he tried to force it to stay neatly combed.

The High King felt Rachel's eyes on him as though everywhere she traced with them was on fire. As a Calormene completed an impressive dodge, he clapped a hand against his thigh so as not to let go of hers. His memory banks flicked through file after file of beautiful courtiers and foreign damsels but not one came to mind that had made him feel like this simple yet lovely British redhead did.

Peter wouldn't go so far as to say he was in love with her, but there was the distinct possibility. In fact, the thought of chocolate candies in red, heart-shaped boxes no longer evoked memories of Edmund's first unsuccessful attempt at wooing the neighbor girl when he was seven but brought to mind timid fantasies for the long-off Valentine's Day. Peter started as he realized he was actually looking forward to something that would only take place back in England. He glanced at Rachel, abruptly startled, not sure how he felt about that prospect. Granted, it had only been a passing, slightly sarcastic thought of a rather ridiculous holiday, but it had been thought nonetheless.

Rachel felt him tense beside her, his hand still enveloping hers though the morning had progressed into early afternoon. Her eyes darted to him, instinctually fearing he had somehow aggravated his wound. She visibly relaxed once she assured herself he was physically fine and allowed herself to rub her thumb over the back of his hand in small comfort.

"Are you all right?" she asked, quiet enough so the others couldn't hear. Peter nodded tightly before looking over to meet her eyes. Their blues clashed and sparked and Rachel dropped his hand without meaning to. The rest of the games passed in a tangible silence that, while not awkward or uncomfortable, pressed between them, seeping into the spider-like fractures that threatened to demolish their carefully constructed, yet fragile, walls like so many glass windows.

Rachel and Kaili slipped away as the men were gathering around to congratulate the final winner. They laughed and chatted their way to the palace and, as Rachel was turning to head up the stairs in the direction of her chambers, the queen caught her arm.

"Just change in my rooms, why don't you? I'm sure we can even find something in my rather extensive wardrobe you can wear," Kaili joked.

So the two made their way to the royal suite to begin their preparations for the concluding ball of the Winter Festival. Kaili had somehow managed to plan an entire feast and dance whilst still attending all the games and to her numerous guests.

Rachel merely shook her head at the other woman's tenacity, not to mention at the sheer and splendid opulence of the royal suite. Kaili called for tea and they sat in their robes on the bed, sipping at their cups and giggling over all manner of things like young girls. They wiled away an hour or two in such a manner before setting about getting ready for the big night. Kaili threw open the double doors that stood along one wall to reveal what was quite possibly the largest closet Rachel had ever seen. Dress after dress and gown after gown lined the rich mahogany-paneled walls in every color and fashion. They were arranged by use, whether it be dancing, hunting or midnight relaxing. Kaili laughed quietly at the expression on Rachel's face.

"Stop laughing. I've never seen so many clothes all in one place before!" Rachel chided, her eyes a bit wide.

Kaili was leaned against the doorframe, her arms folded. "Pick whatever you like. What's mine is yours." She waved a hand carelessly and straightened. "Although, honestly, I would go with something white. You looked stunning last time you wore it. Peter commented on it himself the next day," she smirked.

Rachel flushed. "Oh, he did, did he? What, did you drag it out of him, kicking and screaming?"

With a roll of her eyes, Kaili flipped a lock of black hair over her shoulder. "Stop pretending you're so blind, Rachel. It may not be love but there's something there. Have you not seen the way he looks at you? Do you think I have not seen the way you look at him?" she challenged.

Rachel looked away with a sigh. After a pause, she murmured, "Of course I have seen. I am a modern woman, Kaili, but that doesn't mean I have any experience in this sort of thing."

"Not to sound rude, but Peter does." Kaili stepped into the closet and began rustling through the arrayed gowns.

Her lips tipped up on one side. "Yes, I know." Rachel's answer had Kaili spinning around, shocked. "Well, not like _that_, Kaili! For heaven's sake!"

To her surprise, the queen looked almost disappointed. "Come, Rachel! He's handsome, you're beautiful; you are both young and full of life! What is so wrong about loving in the moment even if you may refuse to live there?"

"You sound like an old, dying philosopher," Rachel snapped, though she felt the truth in her friend's words.

"Quite possibly, but that doesn't mean I'm not right."

"I know you're right and it irks me. I don't want to want to even be in the same room as Peter. But if I list his flaws you'll only tell me I love him all the more!"

"So true, so true. I'm glad you've come to learn the pattern of my lectures," Kaili smiled. "Here. Try this one on." She tossed a soft, pale blue dress to the ranting nurse.

"It's not white," Rachel pointed out needlessly.

"Oh, hush up. It'll bring out your eyes."

Kaili and Rachel arrived for the ball fashionably late, sweeping in as if everyone _else_ had kept _them _waiting. Kaili was announced first and descended with all the grace Rachel could always envy to her husband's waiting kiss of admiration. Taking a deep breath, Rachel schooled her features into a pleasant smile and stepped out onto the large top step. It wasn't that everyone turned and was swept away by her beauty. The room didn't grow quiet or still. But it certainly seemed that way to Rachel and Peter as their eyes met, blue on blue, for the second time that day.

Auburn hair was twisted into a braided bun with a blue ribbon intertwined. Her dress was of the faintest ice blue, so soft it almost appeared Kaili's favored white. The cap sleeves and empire waist with a matching, dainty shawl made Peter think of those old romance novels Susan pored over. Traces of an irridescent silver thread throughout the uniquely simple gown and cover caught the light so she shimmered and captivated, though Peter imagined she would have done that had she been wearing a potato sack.

She stepped down the stairs, holding her skirt a little above her toes to keep from tripping head over heels and took his outstretched hand. Peter pulled her to him so he could whisper in her ear, "Kaili cleaned you up nice."

Rachel glared and swatted at his arm, retorting with, "And if only I had a camera, I could show you off all primped and cleaned and _ruffled _to the boys back home." She flipped her fingers over the velvet ruffles along the bottom edge of Peter's tunic with a smirk.

He grimaced. "It's the style. I'm expected to look stylish." Peter found he couldn't tear his gaze from her eyes. The dress really did bring out that blue.

Rachel glanced out over the already filling dance floor. "Do we have dance cards?"

Peter chuckled, rubbing his thumb over her hand. "Are you asking me to dance? I do believe that's my job."

"I'll take that as a 'no', then."

"And I'll take that as a 'yes.'" Peter turned, still clutching her hand, and half-dragged her into the swirling couples. His arm went around her waist, any pretenses left far behind them. They danced in silence, the noise of the room filling in where a conversation might have stood. Finally, as the song turned to a slow waltz, Peter asked, looking at something over her shoulder, "What have we got, Rachel?"

At her startled look, he elaborated, "With us? What are we? And what are we going to be when we go back?"

"That's abrupt. I thought we had decided to just not talk about it," Rachel said, a tinge of acid in her voice.

He sighed, relaxing his hold a bit. "We never actually decided that."

"It was a silent agreement."

"Well, I think we need to talk about it, anyway."

"Lighten up, Peter. It's a party." Peter bit his lip with a sigh but let it go, as though he had suddenly remember he was dancing to a very slow, romantic song with a beautiful woman in his arms.

They danced a few songs, grazed through the buffet and then danced a few more. As the night went on and the wine was poured, both relaxed enough to appear comfortable in each other's arms. They laughed freely and their smiles grew genuine. Kaili winked at Rachel over Stilian's shoulder drawing out the twinkling eyes and the cheeky smile. Sometime after it grew dark and candles lit the ballroom with an elegant glow, a trio of fauns collected long poles from a corner and fastened a clump of holly berries to the end of it. Rachel watched curiously as they spread through the crowd, holding the branches aloft so the berries and leaves dangled up above.

"What are they doing?" she asked Peter as small groups spontaneously burst out into laughter.

Peter glanced over and grinned. "Oh. It's the Narnian version of mistletoe. Ed was very put out when he discovered it doesn't grow here so he decided holly would work just as well and added his, uh, own personal touch. You know, spread the wealth. I'm not surprised it stuck; it was always a very popular tradition."

Rachel smiled, briefly raising her eyebrows. "I see."

"Maybe I ought to pull us just a smidge more out into the open… Make us a target…" Peter caught her around the waist and easily dragged her towards the nearest holly-bearing faun. The faun grinned and bounded over to oblige his High King.

"Peter-" Whatever else Rachel might have been about to protest was obliterated by his lips on hers. It was a dramatic, exaggerated kiss, meant not to be overly romantic or personal. Rachel knew that but still she couldn't help but melt against him. The first time they had kissed, she had been preoccupied with wanting it. This time was so unexpected thinking would have been out of the question. It was short and teasing, but she could have sworn he had left an impression on her very being.

He pulled away and the whistles and cheers filtered into her consciousness. She blinked, wetting her lips as she stared at him. Peter's eyes narrowed as he studied her reaction. He visibly relaxed as a slow smile spread across her face. "I was worried you were going to slap me," he admitted with a grin, low enough so only she could hear him.

"I didn't slap you the first time, did I?" Rachel winked.

The moon was hidden behind the clouds. Snow obscured any view Rachel might have seen from her window. It didn't matter anyway. There was only one thing she was looking at. Peter. The way the castle curved around this particular courtyard, their balconies were sort of diagonal from each other. Peter had been standing on his balcony with his hands folded behind him for at least 20 minutes and she had been standing in her window in her nightgown watching him for almost as long. Rachel could almost picture her willpower heaving a disgusted sigh as she slipped into a robe, gathered a candle and stepped quietly out into the hall.

She knocked lightly on Peter's door but pushed it open without waiting. She hadn't expected him to answer. "Peter?" she called out softly, setting the candle on the dresser. "Hey." Rachel stepped out onto the balcony, shivering slightly at the chill. She stopped to the side and behind him, right where he couldn't see her, and ran a hand back and forth along his shoulders. He closed his eyes but stayed still and silent. Rachel bit her lip, kneading at the back of his neck with one hand.

"We're leaving tomorrow," he announced abruptly.

"What? Did you see the- what's his name? He said that?" She stopped her ministrations but left her hand against his skin.

Peter shook his head. "No. I didn't see Aslan. I just know."

"How?"

He cleared his throat and glanced to his feet, slapping them against the cool stone floor. "Uh… Well. I think I may have figured out why we're here in the first place." His words were halting as though he didn't want to admit what he had discovered. Rachel nodded, knowing he couldn't see her. "Okay. See, here's the thing." Peter took a deep breath. "We're here because- I- need you."

"I don't understand," Rachel murmured, rubbing her hand across his back again.

"I don't really get it either, but I'm not scared anymore. I'm not scared of England. That's all your fault," Peter explained, the last part half-joking, rather than accusatory. "To help me, you had to know me. So here we are. But the Festival ended today. It just makes sense. Doesn't it make sense?"

Rachel felt choked up, like she was going to cry. "Sure, Peter. Yeah. It makes sense." She really wasn't sure if it did, but then, that might just have been her muddled brain. Sighing lightly, she dragged her hand down his spine as she turned to go. Her fingers grazed his hand and before she could think or even let go, her back was against the arched doorframe and his mouth was on hers.

It wasn't short or sweet and she could think but only about how warm he was and the way he was gentle and merciful but took no prisoners. His hand strayed up her side to grip her neck and hers were pressed against the bare skin exposed by his undone tunic. She moaned against him, a rich, decadent sound that rushed over him. It could have been hours before he pulled away, lips dark and bruised. Both breathed heavily, breath come in short gasps of air. Peter's hand held her roughly against the doorframe.

Their eyes met in the dark, crisp, diamond-like reflections of each other's want. Without a word, their lips collided again and Peter's hand slid down to her thigh, dragging her nightgown up. The night around them grew still and quiet, leaving them alone to each other, her hands sliding the tunic from his broad shoulders and his pulling her nightgown over her head. They shivered between kisses. The bed hit her mid-thigh and he had to lift her up. Silky sheets, conveniently turned down, slid over and under them to block the cold winter air, though probably neither of them would have noticed anyway.

With her legs locked around his waist, she pulled away for the briefest of moments so he moved down her throat to her collarbone. "Peter?" she gasped out. He groaned, though she couldn't be sure if it was an acknowledgement or a sound that came of his current state. He pressed a kiss to the creamy, sloping skin of her breast, his tongue tracing a frantic circle she was sure would leave a mark. Fingers tangling in his blond hair, she mumbled a, "Nevermind." Her hair desperately splashed across his pillow like a streak of red paint on a blank canvas or a stripe of blood across a white bandage. They didn't speak for the rest of the night.


	12. Progress

**Progress**

It was still dark and Peter and Rachel were still nestled together in his stately bed, the red and gold curtains drawn around them. Suddenly, she leaned forward and, grabbing the crocheted throw at the end of the bed, wrapped it around herself and made to get out of the bed.

"Ngh. Where are you going?" Peter whined.

Without answering, Rachel opened his dresser and dug around until she found the pants he had worn into Narnia. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, she lit one on the candle by the bed and crawled back in beside him.

"They say those things'll kill you, you know," Peter muttered as she rested her head on his chest, eyes closed.

"So you keep telling me." Peter took the cigarette from between her fingers and slipped it between his own lips, watching as the smoke mingled with that of their only candle.

Rachel tripped her way down the stairs in a warm robe, knowing she would only find Kaili and Stilian in the dining hall. As expected, the king sat in one chair with his feet on another and Kaili bustled between the hall and the kitchen, taking trays of leftover food back and forth.

"Kaili, for the last time, sit down and relax. I'll help you clean up later!" he sighed.

"If I don't do it right now, it'll never happen and I refuse to let the maids work on their day off," his wife protested.

"Sit down, Kaili. We'll all help if you just do nothing for a little while," Rachel piped up as she stepped into the hall.

"Well, don't you look just chipper this morning," Stilian commented around a piece of chicken.

Rachel's small grin split into a wide smile. "It was a lovely party."

Kaili eyed her but didn't say anything. "Help yourself. If Stilian doesn't eat it all, there's plenty of food."

Rachel chuckled at the couple's banter, reaching for a small group of grapes. She didn't pull out a chair, but sat on the edge of the large table with her legs out in front of her, ankles crossed. All three looked up as Peter walked in, Kaili and Stilian observing the slight bounce in his step with knowing smiles.

"Morning, everyone!" He placed his hands on Rachel's shoulders and pressed a kiss to her lips.

"Mmm. Morning," she murmured, grinning.

"I told you that dress would bring out your eyes," Kaili teased with a smirk, dodging the grape Rachel threw at her, laughing.

"See, I thought it brought out everything else." Peter waggled his eyebrows, only earning him a smack. Stilian and Kaili exchanged slightly smug smiles and Rachel had to suppress the urge to good-naturedly question their motives.

"So what kind of voyage is this? Should I pack you something to eat on your way?" Kaili changed the subject.

Peter shook his head. "Oh no. It's sort of a split second thing. We'll be home in just a minute or two."

Rachel raised her eyebrows, namely at his calling England 'home', but at Kaili's question as well. "You knew we were leaving today?"

"Yes, well, uh, Peter told us yesterday that's what he thought," Stilian filled in. "By the by, Peter, did you want me to send for horses to take you to the Lantern Waste?"

"Oh, I thought we would just use the Tree. After all, it's right here."

"The Tree? But…"

"But what?"

"Well, the Tree has only been used once."

"So have the woods."

"Yes, but if something were to go wrong at the Tree, we'd lose you both forever."

"Peter?" Rachel interjected. "I don't much like the sound of this 'losing us both forever.'"

"There's nothing to worry about. Aslan won't let us fall."

"Fall?" Rachel's voice cracked. "As in, to our deaths?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be so dramatic!"

"And we'll be sure to collect all the pieces if he does."

Rachel shot Stilian a less-than-impressed glance. His wife threw a towel at him. "Don't scare the poor woman, Stilian! He's only kidding, dear."

Kaili, Stilian, Tal and Alp stood beside the Tree at the Telmarine castle. Peter narrowed his eyes against the sun as he gazed at the top tower, memories playing through his mind as if they were on a color film reel. The place was crumbling now, having fallen into disrepair from disuse, but Peter knew he would never remember it as any less than the formidable opponent he had lost against.

"Pevensie? You need some more time to primp or are you ready to go?" Rachel's teasing voice cut into his thoughts and he turned to her with a smile. They were dressed in the clothes they had worn on their first day, though Peter assured her they would arrive looking exactly the same as they had two weeks before, no matter what they wore through the Tree.

He settled his hands on her waist. "Just thinking."

"Remembering?"

"Mhmm," he murmured against her lips. Rachel's fingers wrapped around his forearms as she eagerly responded.

"All right, lovebirds! Let's go!" Alp barked, "As much as I don't want to say goodbye, there is a _very_ pretty little vixen waiting for me."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "All men are the same, whether they walk on two legs or four."

Alp pranced from paw to paw. "Say what you will, but you love us," he sang, drawing laughs from everyone present.

"You can't live with 'em and you can't kill 'em, right, Kaili?"

"You haven't lived with one yet," the queen winked.

Rachel gaped a moment before issuing a decidedly put out 'harumph' through her nose. Peter chuckled, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Come now, we're all just stalling and Alp can't be late for his date. You know how these women are about tardiness."

Stilian and Peter exchanged farewell pleasantries and he kissed Kaili goodbye as Rachel spoke with Tal. "I hope you're not too angry?"

"Angry? How could I be even remotely upset with two people in love? You're all his, Rachel. I knew that the minute I saw you with him." The Islander stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.

"Goodbye, Tal."

"Goodbye, Rachel." They both smiled and he wrapped her in a tight hug. So the goodbyes proceeded.

"We'll all see each other again someday. I'm sure of it," Rachel announced with a definite air. "I just hope it won't be too long."

"Aslan willing." Stilian smiled. "Good luck!"

Rachel waved over her shoulder as Peter tugged her toward the opening in the Tree. "Just breathe. Have faith," he whispered in her ear as they stepped out over nothing and into the chilly sun of Hastings, England.

They stood apart a moment, looking into the clearing fog. Finally, Rachel half-turned to him. "Are you all right?" she murmured.

Peter rubbed his forehead with one hand but didn't answer. Rachel sighed, so afraid she would lose him now that they were back. "Pe-"

"I'm perfect. I'm going to enjoy England with you right here next to me." He wrapped her in his arms and placed a long, lingering kiss on her lips. A muffled shriek from across the street interrupted them and Rachel glanced over, irritated, only to find Margaret pretending not to stare. She flushed.

"Oh dear."

"What is it?"

"Um, well, it's Margaret. And everyone else for that matter! Peter, certainly we've had time to, well, you know, but to everyone here we were only just screaming and throwing things this morning! We have to drag this out; we can't dive in without some sort of charade!"

Peter placed a finger over her lips. "Shh. It's all right. Nothing public." With a sheepish look towards the nurse across the street, he added, "Well, nothing more anyway."

_Sigh. Turn over. Fluff pillow. Turn over. Sigh._ Rachel could not seem to find the tiniest semblance of sleep. The waning moon barely sent any light through her window and memories of what little sleep she had had the night before refused to let her dream about them. With a final sigh, she gave in and, flicking her bedside lamp on, reached for the nursing book by her bed. On impulse, she pulled open the dresser door instead and drew out a tattered novel. With a satisfied smirk, she set about a personal guilty pleasure that just never grew old: It seemed the day her mother had found with horror the stack of pulp romance novels cleverly buried in her travel trunk hadn't had quite the impact it should have. A sharp knock on the door jolted her out of her quiet reading before she had read even a page.

"No lights, Winstrom!" the harsh voice of one of the older, head nurses called through the wall. Rachel sighed and placed her book back in the drawer before turning the light out. It was going to be a very long night.

A light shaking drew Peter from his restless sleep. He groaned but dutifully opened his eyes a slit to peer up at Rachel threw unfairly long eyelashes.

"What?" he demanded, though it came out more sweetly than he had intended.

Traces of a hidden smile touched Rachel's eyes. "Come on, get up. Some of the boys are leaving; you're getting your own bed."

"My own bed?" His voice dropped suggestively.

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Not your own _room_, Peter," she scolded, tapping a finger against his bare arm.

"_You_ have your own room." He subtly stroked her leg with the back of his hand, twisting slightly onto his elbow so he could face her more comfortably.

She leaned down to whisper in his ear. "I think we're a little loud for the hospital, don't you?" Peter watched her mostly sashay in the direction of the door, a visible smirk on his lips.

The day passed as slowly as those that had come before it and Peter spent it twiddling his thumbs, waiting for lights out. His new bed was nice, much better than the cot he had been in before, to be sure, but it only held his attention for as long as a few pieces of metal stuck together can. He scratched in his notebook for a while, much to Rachel's insatiable curiosity, from across the room, of course, but it too could not entertain him for long. The fire that broke out in the kitchen did catch his irritated interest, as it forced him to sit outside on the lawn for three hours, feeling useless, while the nurses ran around frantically with buckets and hoses.

Finally, night fell on the rather horrendous day and, while dinner was worse than usual due to the fire, Peter was eternally grateful. He waited until the lights were out and the men had stopped playing cards by electric torch and then quietly slipped from his bed. He padded down the hall in his socks, gingerly holding his side with one hand and inwardly grumbling that his jousting injury had miraculously disappeared but his original wound had returned in full force.

Rachel thumbed on her torch with a grin. She was intent on reading tonight. She pulled out her novel and settled back against her pillow. She was not more than a chapter in when there was a soft knock on her door. Rachel groaned.

"I know! I know! No lights!" she called, grumbling. There was a confused shuffling on the other side of the door so Rachel rose to open it. Peter leaned against her door frame, looking bewildered.

"I'm hurt. You were expecting someone else," he teased.

"Peter! Good heavens, what are you doing up?"

Peter raised an eyebrow. "What happened to 'oh god, Peter, god…'"

A deep blush crept across her cheeks and she pursed her lips. Reaching out with one hand she pulled him inside and quickly shut the door behind him. "Peter, I thought we agreed…"

"We agreed nothing public. Does that mean I don't get to spend time with you at all?" He crossed his arms over his chest.

Rachel sighed, peering at him through haziness that smoke from the fire had left behind. "No… But what if we get caught? What if somebody finds out we've been fooling around after dark? Hmm? What then, Peter? We won't be spending much time together at all, then, now will we?"

"Shh… You think too much. I just want to be with you and, honestly, I don't care if everyone knows it. But since you're so worried about it, we'll just have to sneak around." He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, pulling her towards him.

"Were you not just listening to me?"

"I'm listening but all I hear is paranoia," Peter teased gently. Her hands fell against his chest as he leaned in for a light kiss. Rachel almost instinctively deepened it, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. His thumb stroked along her jaw in the ragged rhythm of their kiss. They stumbled backward onto the tiny twin bed that stood against the wall. Quiet as they were, the bed still groaned and there were still the occasional footsteps in the hall, but with Peter tucked in tightly beside her and his fingers tangled in her curls, Rachel silently conceded it was worth it.

Rachel was up with the sun, pulling on her tidy uniform. Peter watched as she twisted her hair up into a practical bun. "You know what I want?" he asked, tilting his head to the side to admire the way the early morning light soaked into her, despite the vestiges of smoke.

She looked up from her belt with a raised eyebrow. "Mhmm. I think I do." Her smile widened at his laughter.

"That's not what I meant." He glanced down at the scratchy, white sheets, picking at a piece of imaginary lint. "I want a date."

"A date?"

"Yeah, you know, boy gets all dressed up, brings girl flowers, takes her to dinner and a movie, gets her home at an outrageously decent hour, sneaks around back, climbs through her window and-"

"I'm impressed. You know how a date works." Rachel winked as she finished buckling her belt and came to sit on the edge of the bed beside him.

"Well I have lived here 17 years, you know. I do vaguely understand the concept."

Rachel threaded her fingers into his hair at his temple. "And how do you propose we go on this date?"

"Oh, come now, you're not going to start back up on _that_ again, are you? After last night?" Peter rolled his eyes with a sigh as he brought one hand up to twist her wrist around so he could kiss it.

Rachel's retort was interrupted by the sudden 'ping' of rain on the window. She jumped to her feet and quickly leaned over her desk to throw open the paned glass.

"What in heaven's name are you doing?"

"It's raining!"

"Joy. Most people _close_ the windows when water starts falling from the sky, you know."

Rachel pursed her lips at his sarcasm. "What do you mean 'joy'? Now it won't stink like smoke. Or burnt canned corn." Rachel made a face at the thought.

"I hate the rain. It's cold and dreary and miserable," Peter said, sounding rather like a petulant child.

Rachel spun around, one fist resting on her hip. "Peter Pevensie! How can you say such a thing? Rain is beautiful! It's soft and romantic and it lets everything live just a little bit more. It-"

Peter reached a hand out across the tiny room and caught her hand, dragging her back to the bed. "Shh. I get it." He pulled her down on top of him so one knee rested on either side of him and a stray curl fell across her cheek. "But I still don't like it."

"You know what I'm going to do?"

"I hope so."

"For god's sake, Peter, get your mind out of the gutter!" Rachel giggled in spite of herself and her admonishment.

"All right, all right, what?"

"I'm going to teach you how to love England," she declared.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "And that includes rain?"

"Mhmm. Rain and lipstick and the movies and university and all that normal rubbish you seem to have such a distaste for."

Peter shook his head. "You're normal and I like you."

She cracked a smile. "Well, it's progress."


	13. Going Back to School

**Going Back to School**

"So you know how you wanted a date?" Rachel's voice was low in the hope that no one would hear them. She had seized the opportunity to speak with him when offering to help Peter with his bath. He had raised an eyebrow with the sort of grin that would get her in trouble.

"Yeah?" Peter acknowledged, his eyes closed and his head tipped back, relishing in the feel of her hands stroking his back, even through the rough cloth.

"Well, I came up with a solution for that." Her voice was light and airy, like a young girl with a secret.

Peter whipped around, grimacing as he did so. "You did?"

Rachel laughed, a tinkling sound that was more youthful than he'd seen her since they'd danced around the campfire together. "Mhmm. Now, it's a bit of an unconventional date, but we're not exactly conventional ourselves, so how about a picnic out of town?"

"How do you propose we go about that?"

Rachel was quiet a moment before answering in a soft voice, "I decided maybe sneaking around isn't such a bad thing after all. Don't worry about it. I'll figure something out."

His hand came up to her cheek, his thumb brushing against the rosy skin there. He opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut and dropped his hand with an urgency that shocked Rachel. She realized his reason a moment later, however, when Margaret's almost accusatory voice came from behind her.

"You'll figure what out?" The other nurse crossed her arms over her chest, one eyebrow raised.

"My bandages keep coming undone when I sleep." Peter piped up before Rachel even lost the stunned expression. "Nurse Winstrom was just-"

"I'm sure. Actually, Pevensie, some of the boys were looking for you. Something about sparring," Margaret cut him off. Peter stood fluidly, not the slightest emotion playing across his face. It was then that Rachel realized exactly how much of a part he played on a day-to-day basis. She was probably the only one in years to have seen the passionate side of him that was so evident every time he so much as looked her way.

"Probably that moron, Jonathon..." he grumbled as he almost stomped from the room, grabbing his shirt on his way out. Rachel let her eyes run across the rippling muscles of his back for the briefest of moments before Margaret's voice brought her crashing back to reality.

"Rachel Winstrom! I can't believe you lied to me!" Margaret's fists landed on her hips; she looked decidedly put out.

Surprise crossed the redhead's face. "Lied to you? When did I ever lie to you?"

Margaret's eyebrows shot up. "You told me nothing happened between you and that Pevensie boy, you dash across the street and when the fog clears _there _you are!"

Rachel blushed. "Oh. That. Um, well, you see, I can explain; well, I mean-"

"Stop bumbling like an idiot and tell me what happened, Rachel! You're usually so cautious and reserved. What's gotten into you?"

A sigh preceded Rachel's answer. "Oh, Margaret. I don't know. I've never felt like this before! He's so…" She trailed off, unsure of how to honestly describe Peter. "…so different. He's unlike anyone I've ever known. He frustrates me to no end and then he turns around and does something so romantic and impulsive I can barely keep-"

Margaret smirked. "I'm proud of you," she interrupted. When it was obvious Rachel wasn't comprehending her meaning, she elaborated, "You never let yourself go, Rach. You're always so worried about doing the right thing or being the right person you never let yourself just be yourself. So if that boy out there helps you let your hair down, and I mean _all _the way down, dear, then he's all right by me."

Rachel gaped at the rather impromptu speech but before she could get a word out, Head Nurse Boyeln popped in. "Winstrom! Jones! Stop gossiping and get to work; we've got a whole new round of casualties."

Margaret rolled her eyes. "You'll just have to tell me all the _details_ later, dear," she muttered under her breath with a wink.

Peter never did find Jonathon. He imagined Margaret only wanted a little chat with her best friend and the annoying corporal hadn't been looking for him at all. Peter only hoped Rachel hadn't tried to lie again. It wasn't her strong suit. Reaching his bed, he noticed a small piece of paper protruding from beneath his pillow. He leaned against the side of the mattress and heaved himself up, slipping the paper out as he went. After settling comfortably beneath the sheets, Peter unfolded the note.

_Saturday – 6:00 AM (SHARP, PETER – DON'T BE LATE) Out in front of the hospital_

A smile crept across Peter's face, mingled with a touch of contemplation. Carefully, he creased the note into a crisp square again and slid it back underneath his pillow.

Saturday morning arrived with the creeping fog so customary in England. Peter kept his grouching and grumbling to himself however, as he pulled on something relatively suitable and tucked his notebook and a pen inside his jacket. Silently, he padded from the room and down the spiral stairs to the front door. A red MGTC sat just outside, huddled to the curb. Rachel waved from the driver's seat and he hurriedly climbed inside to escape the cold.

"Lovely day for a picnic," he commented dryly, "Where'd the car come from?"

"It's my brother's," Rachel explained, ignoring his sarcasm, "He's coming to work at the hospital and his car arrived ahead of him."

"Your brother's a doctor? Runs in the family, hmm?"

Rachel shook her head. "Just the two of us. Father's a writer and Mum runs the shop. An antique shop," she tacked on the end, to clarify.

Peter's eyebrows shot up at the descriptions but he merely nodded. A comfortable silence fell over the car, Peter unabashedly watching her and Rachel pretending not to notice, despite the blush stealing across her cheeks.

"So where are we going anyway?" Peter asked, suddenly, his voice soft enough not to disturb the peaceful quiet.

"My godfather and his daughter are caretakers for an estate; it's about forty miles out of town. There's a lovely little stream and a big willow tree, just perfect for a picnic," Rachel answered, all in a rush as though her nerves were as on edge as his were.

Peter leaned over, tucking a curl behind her ear as he pressed his lips there. Rachel shivered. "Peter…" she chided with a smile.

Grassy slopes ran straight into cloudy skies, so much so that the fog trailed down the grass, mingling with the fresh air around them. Peter pulled the large picnic basket from the car, examining the small stream that flowed between the grasses.

"Where exactly are we?" he questioned.

"The Walderbury Estate. Like I said, my godfather is the caretaker. I used to come here with Albert…" Rachel's voice trailed off with a touch of melancholy.

Peter bit the inside of his lip but didn't say anything. "Isn't it awfully early for a picnic?" He quickly changed the subject.

Rachel shook her head. "Not at all! If we didn't come for brunch, we wouldn't have the rest of the day for all manner of other entertainment, now would we?" She raised an eyebrow with a smirk, her fingertip tracing down the rough fabric that covered his chest as she traipsed away down the slope.

Peter grinned despite himself; he had found over the last few days that he could never stay grumpy for long around her. "By other entertainment I assume you a proper game of English bridge?" Rachel didn't even turn around, merely shook her head, brushing the tips of the grass with the palms of her hands.

Peter slammed the back of the car shut and followed, grasping the picnic basket handle with both hands. Reaching the bottom of the slight hill, he found Rachel already spreading out the blanket she had borrowed from the hospital beneath the stately willow.

"There better be something good in here," Peter grumbled teasingly, "I don't think I can handle another meal of burnt potatoes and gravy."

"Actually, it's not as bad as all that! I even managed to scrounge up a piece of pie. Just one, though, so we'll have to share." Rachel brushed a final wrinkle from the blanket and flopped onto it, glancing up at him with a smile. Peter set the basket down beside her and, tugging up his pant legs, knelt with one knee on either side of her. He smothered her smile without any hesitation, his hands automatically finding their way to her waist beneath him.

Rachel's hands roamed his back, feeling the tension in the muscles beneath his loose, cotton shirt. The presence of the tight bandage also beneath his shirt put a grimace in her kiss and Peter pulled away, his brow knitting with worry.

"What is it?"

Rachel shook her head with a sigh. "Nothing. I just don't know how to live like this; not knowing what tomorrow might bring. I've never been spontaneous," she admitted.

A ghost of a smile touched the corner of Peter's mouth. "Well, it's been years since I was this relaxed so perhaps we're just a pinch good for each other."

"Perhaps," Rachel conceded with a small laugh.

They didn't get to the picnic, seeing as it was only more of something burnt and a wilted salad. Instead, they lay beneath the willow, the blanket wrapped between them and the damp earth. Rachel rested the plate of peach cobbler on Peter's bare chest, alternately taking a bite for herself and sending one his way. Peter's hand gently rubbed the small of her back, his eyes focused on something over her shoulder. It was peaceful and quiet, so much so that as a bird flew overhead, they could hear its wings flapping against the growing breeze.

Setting the now empty plate and fork on the grass beside them, Rachel rolled off Peter and nestled herself next to him. Her eyes drifted shut. Peter felt her relax against him and slowly, so as not to wake her, reached for his journal and pen in his discarded jacket. He shifted one leg up so he could lay his journal on it to write and clicked open his pen.

The sun rolled across the sky behind the covering of clouds and they darkened, unnoticed. It was after one o' clock when Rachel finally stirred from her sleep. Peter glanced down at her as her eyes fluttered open and peered into his.

She smiled slightly as he brushed the hair out of her eyes. "How long was I asleep?" she murmured, her voice thick.

"Mmm…" Peter looked his watch and raised his eyebrows in surprise, "About four hours. I guess we lost track of time."

"Oh!" Rachel sat up, pulling the blanket with her. Suddenly, she noticed Peter's journal open on his lap. "Are you ever going to show me what you're writing?"

He sighed deeply through his nose, pursing his lips at her. "It's nothing, really."

"Peter, you've been at it for four hours straight. It must be _something_," Rachel scolded.

"It's rubbish," he countered, but handed her the journal anyway.

Rachel flipped to a page somewhere in the middle and Peter watched as her eyes skimmed over the perfect handwritten words. Finally, she raised her gaze to his. "You're writing a fiction?"

Peter shrugged. "Not like I don't have any experiences stored up," he quipped, raising an eyebrow and a tiny smirk.

Rachel shot him a half-smile, rolling her eyes. "But this is set in England. And now," she pointed out, her fingers running over the ink on the page.

Peter's brow knit. "How can you tell? You've only read a paragraph."

"And in that paragraph you made a quip about submarines and cursed parliamentary wigs."

It was with great effort that Peter almost held back a laugh. Dipping his head to hers, he caught her lips between his own. Rachel brought a small hand up to his hair as he pushed the journal over a large tree root and conveniently rolled her beneath him. His dogtags dangled from around his neck, brushing, cold, against her skin, but as her hands roamed over the rough, white bandage she didn't feel fear or trepidation. All she felt was Peter and- rain. It took a moment for it to register before Rachel smiled against his lips. Peter pulled away, eyes wide. He made a grab for his shirt and pulled over it his head before jumping to his feet, fists on hips.

"You knew it was going to rain!" he accused over Rachel's giggling.

Through a smug smile she managed, "Of course I knew. Lesson #1: teach him to enjoy the rain." Rachel propped herself up on her elbows with a grin; Peter balled her blouse up and tossed it at her, only earning himself a wider smile.

"You thinking getting me caught in the rain is going to make me like it?"

"Trust the teacher, Peter," she sing-songed, slipping into her blouse and skirt. He crossed his arms over his chest with a childish pout. Rachel rolled her eyes. "Oh for heaven's sake. Come on, we'll take the car up to the house and wait out the rain. You big baby," she added under her breath.

It took hardly any time at all to dash between the raindrops to the car and even less to throw the picnic basket in the back and hop inside. However, when Rachel pushed the key in the ignition, nothing happened. She turned it again, confused. Peter ran a hand over his face.

"Just what _is _the problem, dear?" he half-growled.

"Well what does it look like? The car won't start!" Rachel threaded her fingers through her wet hair in an annoyed gesture. "Your bad mood is rubbing off on me. We'll just have to make a run for it."

"In this storm?"

"Would you rather we get out and push?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. Which way is the house?"

Rachel bit her lip, glancing out the rain-streaked windows. Finally, she pointed to a small hill to their right. "Over there, I think."

"You think? An interesting date this is turning out to be." With that, Peter thrust open his door, jumped out of the car, straight into a puddle I might add, and rushed around to help Rachel out. She looked up at him in surprise but he only hurriedly motioned her out. Slamming the door, he grabbed her hand and began running, pulling her along toward the spot she had pointed out. Rachel laughed as he pulled off his jacket with one hand, holding it awkwardly over their heads.

"Come on!" he shouted over the growing din of pounding rain, a trademark grin even she rarely saw pulling up one side of his mouth. They made a mad dash up the slope, sliding down the other side and up the next. As they crested the second hill, they could see the mansion preening herself in the reflective puddles gathering around her.

Rachel passed him, pulling his hand so he toppled head over foot and slid the rest of the way down on the slick, wet grasses. She clapped a hand over her mouth, laughter mingling with the rain soaking them both. Peter mock-glared, his mood obviously improved by their little jaunt and caught her around the waist, dragging her up to the house and under the portico. Laughing breathlessly, Rachel pressed the bell, leaning against her soldier.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and the door opened with effort to reveal a young woman, maybe a few years younger than Rachel with thick, dark hair and wide, green eyes. A grin displayed dimples in her cheeks. "Rachel! What in heaven's name are you doing out in this storm?"

"We were down by the stream for a picnic and got caught in the rain. Can we wait it out here?" she replied, catching her breath.

"Of course! Come in, come in." The woman ushered them in, taking Peter's dripping jacket and draping it over a coat rack. She extended a hand to him, saying, "I'm Kathleen."

Peter firmly shook her hand, running his other through his wet hair. "Peter. Peter Pevensie."

"I assume you two would like to get cleaned up; I think some of Thomas' clothes will fit you, Peter. Just put yours outside the door and the maid will take them. They'll be clean before you leave, I promise," Kathleen offered.

"Oh! A hot bath sounds positively delightful right now," Rachel admitted.

"Well, come on, then!" Kathleen grabbed the older girl's hand, pulling her towards the stairs and pointing to another staircase on the other side of the entry. "There's a loo up there, Peter; the clothes are in the attached bedroom. Feel free!"

"So."

Rachel sighed contentedly as she sank into the large clawfoot tub. Her hair was twisted up so she wouldn't get bubbles in it. "So what?" She raised an inquiring eyebrow at Kathleen, sitting on a swiveling chair at the vanity.

"So who is he?"

"Peter?"

"No, the mailman. Yes, Peter!" Kathleen rolled her eyes in the mirror.

Rachel smirked. "He's a soldier. Wounded at Normandy."

Kathleen spun around, tucking her silk robe better around her waist. "He's one of your patients?"

Blushing, Rachel nodded. "Do they know the two of you are out here?" Kathleen asked carefully.

There was a long pause as Rachel considered how she should answer. "The head nurse knows I was going to take a couple of the men who were able on a picnic, let them get out a bit, you know, but she doesn't know it's just Peter and I. I knew it was going to rain, but I wasn't expecting a torrential downpour, so I don't know how long Margaret can cover for us."

Kathleen glanced out the window above the bathtub at the pounding weather. "It doesn't look like it is going to let up any time soon either. You might have to spend the night."

Rachel leaned back against the tub with a sigh. "Just my luck."

"Well is he at least worth it?" Kathleen teased.

"More than," she grinned.

Rachel leaned with one hand against the cold glass window of a second-story bedroom. A fire had been lit and it crackled welcomingly, casting a warm glow over the room. The low squeak of an opening door let her know Peter was done.

"Hey," he murmured behind her, quickly closing the distance across the room and wrapping his arms around her waist. Peter rested his chin on her shoulder, watching the streaming rain on the window pane. "It really is beautiful, you know."

Rachel smiled slightly, turning to look at him. Peter grudgingly gave her half a smile as she leaned her head against the crook of his neck. Running a hand down her silky hair, he kissed the top of her head.

"Come sit by the fire with me," he said, just above a whisper. Rachel let him lead her away from the window to the small couch in front of the fire. As she nestled against him, he pulled a thick blanket from the bed to cover them. They fell asleep like that, listening to the pounding summer rain and the softly crackling fire.


	14. A Shakespearean Tragedy

**A Shakespearean Tragedy**

It was reluctantly that they stirred from their warm embrace but sunlight had dried the rain on the windows and was prodding them in their sleep. Rachel disentangled herself from him, running a hand through her messy hair as she stood. The peace of an early morning was disrupted with the squeaking of the shower and the maid at the door with clean clothes and the sounds of waking life downstairs. Slowly, Peter and Rachel made their way downstairs, dreading their coming return to the hospital and whatever waited for them there.

As they stepped into the dining room, Kathleen set a bowl of marmalade on the table. Glancing up at them, she smiled congenially. "Good morning! Did you sleep well? Oh, Rachel, I sent the gardener down to get your car; he's sort of a hobbyist mechanic. I'm sure he'll have you fixed right up in no time. Care for a waffle or two, Peter?"

"Certainly. I shall have to stock up on good food before we return to the kitchen of a kindly woman who is quite possibly the worst cook I've ever met in my entire life," he smiled, picking up a plate from the stack on the corner of the table and offering it to their hostess.

Kathleen chuckled, generously heaping waffles on his plate and dramatically offering the orange marmalade. Rachel shook her head as she poured herself a cup of tea. "Where is Walter, Kathy?"

Kathleen rolled her eyes as they sat down. "Visiting Mother. They _separated_ two years ago, Peter, and only talk unless there is someone there to mediate, but Father has a box of pictures of them under the bed and Mother listens to records he gave her every night so I don't know why they bother pretending."

"They've both always been stubborn," Rachel laughed, thumbing through the paper. She handed Peter the arts and culture section, snagging politics for herself. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly, wishing for the hundredth time that morning that they didn't have to return.

The mechanic, who's name they discovered was Matthew, returned shortly after breakfast with the car a bit muddy but no worse for the wear. Peter gathered the few things they had together while Rachel said goodbye to Kathleen.

"I'm happy for you, darling," Kathleen murmured, squeezing her hands. They stood next to the car in the fresh sunshine that slowly dried out the rain-drenched ground.

"Don't be too happy. I don't know what it is," Rachel admitted. "What do I do if someone finds out? Or when he goes back to the front and something happens?"

"You deal with it because he loves you. Trust me, he loves you." Kathleen glanced up as Peter came out of the house. "Trust me," she whispered, hugging Rachel tightly. Rachel sighed but kissed her on the cheek.

"Thank you," she murmured with a smile, pulling away to get in the driver's seat. Peter followed suit, thanking Kathleen and climbing in beside Rachel.

"Home sweet hospital," Peter grumbled as they pulled up outside of the building. Rachel tried to smile but found she was too preoccupied with what was going to greet them when they found their way inside.

Ever observant, he covered her hand with his. "It will be all right," he promised, "We're going to make this work, no matter what anyone in there says."

Rachel smiled at him, a real smile this time, and turned her hand so she could curl her fingers through his. "And to negate that argument, I'd kiss you but there's someone watching from the doorway," Peter half-teased, glancing at the tall, dark-haired man in the doorway, arms folded over his chest.

She turned her head to the side just enough to get a glimpse. "Richard." Pulling away, she took the keys from the ignition and opened her door before stepping out onto the street. "Richard!" she called with a smile, striding over to him.

Peter got out of the car, eyeing the siblings as they quickly embraced. He closed his door and wandered over to them, hands in his pockets, just catching a piece of their conversation.

"I am so sorry about the car. I will wash it, of course," Rachel was promising, obviously embarrassed.

"I will certainly hold you to that, too," Richard teased, one hand on her shoulder as he turned a half-accusatory stare on Peter. "You must introduce me to your friend, Rachel."

"Oh I'm sorry! This is Peter Pevensie. He is a patient here. Injured at Normandy," Rachel said conspiratorially, giving Peter a look that said very plainly 'behave yourself'.

Peter shook the man's hand with a vaguely friendly smile, uncomfortable somehow. The fact that he knew Rachel so intimately, worried him suddenly. Maybe Rachel was right to be concerned about being found out, what with family here suddenly. Peter cleared his throat. _He _had always been the protective, older brother there to scare off boys like him. Except they weren't like him.

"It's nice to meet you." And, yet, he just _knew _Richard would be a catalyst one way or the other for them: a Shakespearean tragedy or a faun's love song.

Peter's pen glided over a crisp page in his notebook, perfect penmanship pouring out words. He sat on his cot, leaning against the wall, as relaxed as he could be given his injury and the situation.

"Ahem."

Peter knew Richard was standing there, of course. He had always had a keen ear, perhaps not as keen as Edmund's, but sharp nonetheless. Glancing up, he feigned surprise. "Oh I'm sorry. Didn't see you there," he said congenially, grinning.

"Peter, is it?" Richard forcefully shoved his hands in the pockets on his lab coat.

"That's right. What can I do for you, Dr. Winstrom?" Peter asked, putting on that smiling face that had gotten him out of so many scrapes in the past.

"You can start by leaving my sister alone." Then again, it didn't _always _work.

"Has Rachel expressed any desire to not see me?" His diplomatic skills may not have matched his younger brother's either but he could do nothing if not talk.

Richard stumbled for a moment but glared fiercely. "No, she has not. But the two of you return from an outing in the rain that kept you overnight? What am I to believe?"

"I can't imagine, sir. Of course, you don't know me but she appears to trust me. Doesn't that stand for anything?" Peter demanded politely.

"She is a level-headed woman, it's true, but they all have their romantic notions and some strapping, young soldier comes along to sweep her off her feet, the first thing she's going to do is let all that logic fly out the window! I will not have you taking advantage of my sister," Richard countered, his voice steady and firm.

"She is a smart, _capable _woman with too _few _romantic notions and you ought to let her live her own life. If it was my sister, and, yes, I have two, I would let her court whoever she pleased." Peter turned back to his notebook with a finality that rang of dismissal. Of course, if it really were him and Susan or Lucy, he would be just as hard-nosed and suspicious as Richard was being, but Richard didn't need to know that.

Richard reached down, snapping the journal shut with his fingertips so Peter looked up at him in annoyance. "I don't know what you think you're up to but a few days in Rachel's company do not make you an expert on her. In fact, I would be willing to bet you don't know a thing about her beyond what your imagination has cooked up about a redheaded nurse."

"She likes Jane Austen, she loves the rain, hates being told what to do but doesn't always speak up for herself when she should. She loves England more than _anyone _should but has a distaste for the ocean because her fiancé drowned in it. Your father is a writer, one thing she finds interesting about _me_," Peter paused to tap his notebook, "and she drives like a maniac. I'll never be an expert on her, probably no one could, but the little things I do know? Make me wonder if I love her even though I've done my damnedest to make sure that didn't happen. So don't preach at me."

Richard blinked, straightening slowly. His brow knit together as he wondered how anyone could get Rachel to open up that much in the span of a few days. "I'm not preaching. I'm telling," he barked, turning on his heel and walking purposefully, hurriedly away.

Peter sighed. So Shakespearean tragedy, then.

"Your brother hates me," he told her later, in the bath.

"He doesn't hate you," Rachel sighed from behind him, running the sponge down his chest.

Peter bit his tongue over ratting Richard out. She didn't need to know they suddenly had very real opposition. It would only put a greater strain on her and he didn't want to be the one to inflict that.

"If it helps, I at least now have a fond memory of rain," Peter changed the subject, reaching up to squeeze her hand.

"I told you," she laughed quietly, brushing her lips over his temple. "It's romantic."

"It was only romantic because you were there," Peter shot back, closing his eyes.

Rachel bent again so her lips moved next to his ear, whispering, "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Tart." Peter flicked water on her with one hand and grinned that he could make her laugh like that.

Richard ground his teeth as he watched silently from the darkened doorway as Peter snuck down the hall toward Rachel's room that night. What had happened to her honor? Had this war really turned every man into a drunken, womanizing sot and every woman into a swooning harlot? Was that what the Germans were bringing them?

He clenched his fists together in his pockets, forcing himself to turn away and walk steadfastly in the opposite direction. It would do no good to barge in with declarations of saving her honor; she would only run off with the boy for it.

No, no, if he were to get Rachel away from that good-for-nothing, enlisted man's waterboy, he would have to have a very clever plan. It pained him to realize he would have to see them together more to learn what buttons to push to drive them apart, but it was small suffering indeed if he could only save his sweet, little sister from an ill match with such an inexperienced _boy_.


	15. Adjustments

**Adjustments**

Peter stood leaning against a pillar in the small, shabby courtyard, toying with a mostly burnt cigarette. He tapped it with his finger, watching the ashes fall slowly to the cobblestone. He sighed, unsure of himself these days. In Narnia he had fallen in love with an English girl but in England her brother sought to keep them apart. Richard had grown increasingly difficult the last few days, even going so far as to rearrange the schedules so that Peter was given his bath by Nurse Bradford, a kind but portly older woman. Not the same as his Rachel with her hands hot and wet, running over his skin. Peter shook himself at the thought, trying not to smile.

A knock resounded next to his head on the stone pillar and Peter jumped nearly out of his skin. He spun around to glare fiercely at Rachel, his free hand on the bandage on his chest. "Don't sneak up on a person like that!" he chided, quieting her giggles.

"Sorry love," she murmured, still smirking as she reached out a hand. "Are you quite all right?"

Peter pulled away and leaned back against the pillar, putting his cigarette between his lips and moodily folding his arms over his chest. Rachel sighed, resting her hand on his shoulder anyway. "What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

"Nothing," Peter assured her, lying easily. "Just… adjusting."

"Peter, honestly, if something, if something is _bothering _you, just tell me," Rachel half-begged, concerned about how he had been pulling away from her.

"Nothing is bothering me!" Peter snapped, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his shoe. "Just drop it, Rachel."

Rachel swallowed hard, her eyes closing briefly as she fought to keep a hold of herself. "Is it me?" she asked finally, her hand falling off his shoulder.

"What?" Peter growled, struggling to get another cigarette out of his pocket.

"Is it me?" Rachel asked again, hating that he had reduced her to such insecurities.

Peter froze, turning towards her. He slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket and took her by the shoulders. "No. Absolutely not. Rachel, god, no, I'm so sorry," Peter swore, meeting her eyes with fearful sincerity. "I'm so sorry I let you think that."

Rachel breathed a sigh of relief, wrapping her arms around him, her face buried in his chest. "I thought, with Richard being so difficult, you had decided I wasn't worth it," she admitted in embarrassment, her voice muffled by his shirt.

Sliding his arms around her small frame, against his better judgment since they were standing where anyone could pop in on them, Peter rested his lips on her temple. "You're worth everything he can dole out," he promised quietly, rubbing a hand over her back.

Rachel let out a soft breath, pulling back, as much as she wanted to stay in his arms forever. "I apologize for him. He's a bit… old-fashioned, I suppose," she shrugged. "It can be frustrating."

Peter shook his head, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "It's understandable," he disagreed. "What's _frustrating_ is you giving Jonathon poncy Dietrich a _sponge bath_ while Nurse Bradley is scrubbing at me across the hall."

Rachel bit her lip to hide a smile. "I _am_ sorry about that," she said.

"I just want to be able to see you," Peter murmured, his hand cupping her cheek and his thumb stroking over her cheekbone. "I've probably only got two or three weeks at the most before they send me back out and I don't want to miss a second with you."

It was the first time either of them had addressed the fact that Peter wouldn't _indefinitely _be staying at the hospital. It had taken just about two weeks for his wound to heal in Narnia; it would only take slightly longer in England and then he would be gone, back to fighting for her country.

But then what?

There were so many possibilities but really only two paths: either he would perish in a fight, lost forever, nameless, in some trench somewhere or as a hero, buried with his name on a white cross or he would survive and go on to live a long and happy life.

If he died, it would be easy. They would end and she would move on. She would marry someone else, someone less exciting perhaps, but more suitable and more British.

But if he lived, it would be hard. There could be more between them than rainy June days and soft, warm beds. There could be a future. They could get married and settle down, have babies and grow grey together.

The very thought seemed to terrify both of them, much less than if he died a warrior's death.

Rachel looked away, the thoughts tumbling through her mind. "How about a movie?" she said quietly, ignoring the confusion and the emotions. "I have Saturday off; you could sneak out and we could catch a matinee."

Watching her closely, Peter nodded his resignation. "More teaching me to love modern England?" he sighed.

She smiled, meeting his eyes again as the conversation grew less serious. "I thought we could go see _Henry V_, Laurence Olivier. It's still a movie so I'm happy but you get your swordfights and your Old English."

Peter laughed, leaning one arm up on the pillar beside him, his cigarette dangling from his fingers. "Sounds good," he agreed, but not for the film. Like he had said, he just wanted to be with her and if that meant sitting in a stuffy cinema for two hours, he would.

Rachel glanced around to be sure they were alone before leaning in to steal a kiss. "The theatre is downtown. Can you get there?" she asked quietly.

"I'll catch a ride on the supply truck," Peter nodded, resting his hand on her neck so he could hold her close while he kissed her.

Peter sat in the back of the supply truck, bouncing along as they came into Hastings. "You meetin' somebody?" the driver asked in a thick Cockney from the front.

"A nurse," Peter replied shortly. As enamored with Rachel as he was, his attitude toward most things British hadn't changed and this truck driver happened to fall in that category.

"Mmm. A pretty one, I suppose, eh? Good for you. I say, the wounded are the luckiest. They get all the pretty girls!" Peter rolled his eyes, letting the man carry on a conversation with himself.

Finally, they parked in town and Peter scrambled gracefully out the back. "Thank you, for the ride," he said, his voice turning easier, grateful.

The man blinked in surprise. "Not a problem, mate," he said, clapping Peter on the shoulder before turning to sort through the mess in the back of the truck.

Peter nodded and disappeared down the street to find the cinema. He spotted Rachel in a blue dress, a large white hat perched on her head. She held her purse in front of her with both hands as she looked up and down the street, searching for him. Slinking along behind her line of vision, Peter grabbed her hand and spun her around to face him. Rachel shrieked but he kissed her before anyone could think something was wrong. Her arms wound around his neck, a smile on her face as she moaned quietly, his lips soft and warm on hers.

He ran one hand up her back between her shoulder blades, squeezing her hand with the other. Finally, Peter pulled back. "You look beautiful," he murmured with a smile, meeting her eyes through the short white veil over them.

"Really? Even without a corset?" Rachel teased, feeling free without the restraints of her uniform and the confines of the hospital.

Peter laughed, running his hand up her arm to the short sleeve and slipped his fingers just underneath it, rubbing the fabric between them. "Yes, even without a corset. It's nice to see you how you're supposed to be, no uniform… no corset," he said, smiling slightly in acquiescence. "This is you." He pulled his hand away, tipping her hat slightly.

Rachel smiled, wrapping her arm through his. "This was me before the war, anyway."

Leading her inside, Peter fished through his pocket for the small wad of cash to pay for tickets. "You're still you, Rachel," he murmured, that telling experience in his eyes, "War doesn't change who you are in here." He tapped his knuckle over her heart. "You'll see. When it's all over, you'll go back to who you were, maybe with a bit different perspective and a lot more wisdom, but still who you were. The war will just wash off you, like grime in a bathtub. You'll always remember it and it will never go away, exactly, but you will find the woman you buried inside of you when you signed up for all this."

Rachel watched his shoulders straighten as he talked and listened carefully to his voice grow older, wiser. She never saw him as a seventeen-year-old boy anymore. In her mind, he was every inch a thirty-two-year-old king. He paid for the tickets, stuffing change into his pocket, and when he turned back to her, he was young again. His eyes were bright and cheerful as he took her hand. "Shall we?"

She held his gaze for a long moment, thinking. He was a conundrum, it was true. He looked young but he acted wise beyond his years. He seemed fine with the situation, taking a dolled-up nurse out to a matinee, but the way he held himself, he was uncomfortable. Rachel sighed inwardly. It would take a lot to show this man he could still belong in England. She nodded, smiling. "Lead the way."

The film had their hearts racing and Rachel could feel Peter relax slightly next to her. It was exciting and romantic and when Henry gave his speech to the troops, Peter sat still and quiet in conviction that every word was true and he had said the same things to tired soldiers himself. Finally, the credits rolled and the theatre burst into applause. It was heart-pounding and Rachel clung, breathless, to his arm as they walked outside, blinking in the bright, afternoon sun.

"I _told _you you could appreciate this crazy, modern world," she teased, a pleased smile on her face.

"It really was fascinating," Peter agreed, too serious.

Rachel sighed, pinching his arm. "Honestly, Peter. You can't just enjoy it, can you? You have to analyze it," she complained.

"Well it was very well done!" Peter looked down at her in protest but smirked at the look on her face. "All right, all right. The popcorn was excellent," he teased, sucking salt off her bottom lip.

Rachel grinned, tossing an arm around his neck and pushing up onto her toes to kiss him firmly. "It was, wasn't it?" she murmured, hooking her veil back so she could rub her nose over his.

"I think it tastes better on you though," Peter whispered with a wink, earning himself a slap upside the head from a blushing Rachel.

"Hush," she mumbled. "Come on, I'm positively starved."

Peter let her lead him down to a small, weather-beaten shack by the docks. The sign nailed above an overhang, both faded from years of salty air, read _Ernie's Fish & Chips_ with a small, red fish painted next to it. Rachel ordered two meals and balanced them while Peter paid. She handed him one package, hissing and shaking her hand from the heat. "A right British tradition," she said with a cheeky smile. "I thought it would be appropriate, fish and chips, for your education."

They wandered down the dock onto the beach and walked until they found somewhere secluded enough to sit in the sand with their shoes off and just listen to the waves. Rachel dug her toes into the sand, warm under the unusually clear day's sunshine. She swiped some of his tartar sauce on a chip, though she had plenty of her own and smiled when he batted her hand away.

"It's good, isn't it?" she teased, nibbling on the slice of potato.

Peter grumbled around his answer and she nudged him with her elbow, laughing at his reluctance. "See? England isn't so bad," she murmured softly.

He paused for a beat but shook his head shortly. "No. Not so bad."

Rachel turned her attention back to her fish, letting him think. They sat there quietly, the small waves rushing up the beach and back again. When they were done eating, she set the empty packages aside and curled up beside him, her head pillowed on his chest. Peter trailed his fingers through her hair, untangling thick, red curls. He leaned back against the small sand dune blocking them from the wind, always relaxed at the ocean.

This place, with the dunes blocking the sight of steamer ships and war machines, with the waves the only sound, at least for now, with their shoes off and the sun shining, he could almost pretend he was home. _Cair Paravel_. The oceans were so blue, so green, so frothy and mysterious there. When he opened his eyes, he had to blink to see the dingy haze. In his mind, even if just for a moment, Hastings could have easily been as beautiful as those distant shores.

Peter shook himself, his brow knitting. How could he confuse Cair and _Hastings_ of all places? He lifted his arm over Rachel's shoulder, glancing at his watch. "I should go soon, love," he murmured softly, distracting himself from Narnia. "The supply truck leaves in twenty minutes. I'm going to be in enough trouble without missing my ride."

Rachel sighed, lifting her head and holding herself up on her hand behind him. "Just a few more minutes," she mumbled, sounding half asleep.

Peter smiled, instantly fully back in England. "Come on, love. Wake up," he said, his voice quiet and his lips brushing over hers as he cupped her cheek in one hand.

Blinking, Rachel leaned into the kiss, her head resting on his shoulder. "Go," she whispered, "Before I don't let you." Peter shook his head slightly, too wrapped up in her to leave now. Rachel pulled back, shooting him a warning look.

Peter sighed and nodded, resting his forehead on hers to brush another kiss over her lips. "I'll talk to you later, Rachel, love," he murmured.

"Bye, Peter," Rachel murmured back, straightening her arm so she could sit up, her lips still moving under his, "I love you."

He paused and pulled back, slightly stunned but not wanting it to show on his face. "I-" Rachel stared at him half-blankly, not having meant to say it and not sure what his reaction was going to be.

"I-" Peter stood, not meeting her eyes as he pressed his lips briefly to her forehead. He pulled his shoes on, hopping on one foot and then the other. "Goodbye, Rachel."

Rachel waited until he had disappeared around the dune to sink back onto the sand. She wiped at frustrated tears with the back of her hand. "Is it worth it?" she whispered to crashing waves, suddenly wondering if maybe her older brother wasn't right.


	16. Fling

**Fling**

Rachel was late in returning to the hospital, her cheeks streaked with tears and sand in her hair from lying on the beach. She snuck in the back and into her room, washing her hair out in the basin on her dresser before collapsing onto the bed. Her few moments of sleep were haunted by the looming decision of _what to do_.

Peter lay awake down the hall on his bed, his hands folded on top of the thin blanket as he stared at the ceiling. Someone a few beds over was snoring and the man across from him kept wheezing in his restless sleep so Peter immersed himself in the sounds to keep from thinking of Rachel. _I love you_. What had made her say it? She had seemed as surprised as he had been, but he still felt she had expected him to return the sentiment. Had he just ruined his chances of keeping her?

She was up before anyone else, unable to keep her eyes closed any longer. Washing clothes and helping Cook in the kitchen, Rachel busied herself with mundane tasks so she could focus on something other than him. She avoided Peter all morning, not sure how to talk to him. They had had such a lovely day but then that moment on the beach… had she ruined their chances?

Richard caught her in the hallway and instantly knew by the look on her face that something was terribly wrong. "Rachel?" He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "What is the matter?"

Shaking her head, Rachel tried to break away without answering but he held on steadfastly. "Rachel, what's wrong with you? Is it that Peter boy?"

Tears filled her eyes involuntarily and Rachel leaned into her brother's arms. "Oh Richard!" she cried quietly. "I really thought he did."

Richard rubbed his hand over her back comfortingly. "Really thought he did what, dear?"

"Love me." Rachel buried her face in his shoulder, her shoulders shaking with confused and frustrated sobs. Richard paused, not entirely sure what she meant by that but sensing it was going to work in his favor.

"What do you mean, Rachel? Did he say he didn't?" Richard asked slowly.

Rachel shook her head without looking up. "No, but," she paused to hiccup, "he didn't say it back."

Tensing, Richard felt a rush of pain for his younger sister. "Oh darling." He stroked his hand over her hair. "I'm so sorry." Really, he was. He wanted her to be happy. He had wanted to be wrong about that _Peter._ "But at least now you know his true colors."

"Do I?" Rachel asked weakly, finally pulling away enough to look at him. "Maybe he was just caught off guard or wanted it to be special or…"

Richard cupped her cheek in his hand. "Darling, he knew it, I knew it and, yes, even you knew it: whatever the two of you had was never any more than a fling. Now you can move on, devote your energies to something more productive."

_No. He does love me. He must. Why would he spend so much time getting to know me…?_ Rachel wanted to believe it was true but the more logical and realistic voice in her head was insisting Richard was right.

Peter waited until he saw her go into her room on a break and quickly, quietly, let himself in behind her. "We need to talk."

Rachel glanced up at him from the bed, her confusion melting away under his steely gaze. "Yes. We do." Her voice caught, an admittance of defeat.

Leaning against the door, feeling as though he shouldn't sit without an invitation, Peter folded his arms. "I'm sorry if I offended you, Rachel, but I'm just not there yet," he said firmly, a well-rehearsed speech on the tip of his tongue.

"That's all right." Rachel sat up, her hands gripping the edge of the bed fiercely. "I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that." She opened her mouth to continue but the words stuck in her throat.

Peter nodded shortly. "Thank you." He looked away, hoping this wouldn't push them apart for too terribly long.

"Which is why I think we should end this." Rachel stood to grip her desk chair instead, her back turned on him.

"End-What? No! Rachel, I'm not saying I never will but that I need time. I still have a lot to work through which _you_ told me, by the way," Peter exclaimed, straightening up off the door.

Rachel shook her head. "No, no. That's not why I want this." She turned around slowly, her hands behind her to keep her steady.

"You want this? You don't want what we have?" It was Peter's turn to stumble, his breath hitching as he stepped toward her, one hand out.

She flinched away as his fingers brushed over her cheek. "It's not _reasonable_. We are not being logical about this, Peter. In a week, maybe two, you'll be gone and I will have saved your life only to have you die some bloody death somewhere else. We should leave it at what it was: a fling."

Peter's hand dropped to his side. "I see." He glanced away, out the window, remembering bright moonlight, bourbon and raindrops.

Rachel watched his face, blinking back the tears in her eyes. "You should get back to your bed before someone notices you gone again," she said firmly. He stood there a moment, processing, before swiveling on his heel and walking purposefully from the room. The door closed silently behind him as it always did, never giving her the satisfaction of a loud slam.

She choked on a sob, sinking to the floor with shaking hands and ruined makeup.

Richard watched curiously as Peter walked back to his bed and climbed in, his face set in a stern glare. He glanced down the hall as Rachel came out of her room, the same look, albeit slightly more tearful, on her face as well. Looking pleased with himself, he finished checking a chart and walked with something of a spring in his step toward the operating room.

Posters hand-drawn by patients and nurses proclaimed:

_Dance! _

_June 17, 6:00 p.m.  
Cafeteria_

Rachel had actually been excited about the dance, until that morning. Now the dress she had bought in town before Peter arrived at the cinema seemed silly and needless, frivolous, even. She sat on her bed, staring at it as it hung in her open closet, pretty and red and terribly modern. Peter would have hated it but she would have made him love it. She had been making real progress, teaching him how to love England. Now everything she had worked so hard to give him was gone, she was sure.

Knocking quietly on the door and pushing it in without waiting for an answer, Margaret stepped into the room. She sat next to Rachel and wordlessly handed her a handkerchief and a flask. Rachel smiled slightly, taking the two objects almost gratefully. "Thanks," she mumbled thickly.

"What are best friends for, right?" Margaret sighed, wrapping her arm around Rachel's shoulders. "I'm so sorry, love."

Rachel shrugged. "It's all right. I'll be all right."

"Well you'll show him when he sees you in that dress. He'll regret every mistake he ever made, twicefold," Margaret said assuredly with venom in her voice the way a best friend is supposed to.

Rachel pulled away, her brow knit. "When will he see me in the dress?"

"At the dance." Margaret's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "You can't possibly be thinking of not going!"

"Well who am I going to go with?" Rachel demanded.

"No one. Or, ooh, even better yet, you flirt just enough to get an invite from somebody else. That would be fabulously perfect," Margaret grinned, squeezing Rachel's arm.

Rachel shook her head, not wanting revenge. At least not yet. Maybe she would when her heart had caught up to her brain enough to break.

And watching him the next morning with a cigarette between his lips and a serene look on his face as he scratched in that damn notebook, her heart caught up. "Jonathon? You know, I have this fabulous new dress I would like to wear to the dance but I'm afraid there just isn't anybody special to see me in it." Rachel smiled coyly, ignoring the look on Peter's face.

Before he knew it, it was Saturday and you could practically taste the excitement. A real dance with music and pretty girls; it was enough to put smiles on every man's face. Every man's face but Peter's, that is. Not being able to hold Rachel in his arms was enough to take _away _his smile. He glowered at the ceiling as nurses helped several of the men into their uniforms before they themselves dashed off to change. It seemed it would be him, a handful of comatose and Nurse Boyeln tonight. Peter sighed, reaching under the bed with a wince for his notebook and told himself for the hundredth time it would be nice to get some peace and quiet.

The room slowly emptied, some men on crutches and some in wheelchairs, but everyone laughing and giddy. Peter sighed loudly, dropping his head into his hands. He sat there a long moment like that until he felt the bed dip down on one side. Looking up, he was surprised to find Head Nurse Boyeln sitting there with a cup of tea and a sympathetic look on her face. He accepted the cup almost suspiciously, mumbling his thanks.

"You should be at the party," she murmured quietly. "You're too young to be cooped up in here."

"Who am I going to dance with?" Peter quipped sarcastically, assuming she wouldn't pick up the reference.

"Nurse Winstrom wants you to see her in that silly, red dress," Boyeln answered, raising an eyebrow. "I'm not blind, you know."

Peter stared at her in disbelief. She was the one Rachel had been so afraid of finding out about them. "Y-you don't think-What?"

Boyeln chuckled, patting his leg. "Come on; I'll help you change."

"No, no, I can't. She went with Dietrich."

"And she wants you to see her in that dress." The older nurse stood and retrieved his new uniform from under the bed. "Quite an array of medals for someone so young," she commented, unfolding it.

Peter watched her for a moment before giving in. He didn't think it would be terribly easy to talk her down. "It's just scraps of metal, is all." He swung his legs out of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.

She silently helped him change and dipped to her knees to tie up his boots. "Now come on," Boyeln insisted stubbornly, offering him her arm to get out of bed.

Peter sighed, letting her pull him up. "You're not so frightening after all," he commented grudgingly.

"Thank you. Don't tell the nurses." The older woman smirked, patting his shoulder, before disappearing down a hallway.

Chuckling, Peter shook his head and slowly made his way in the opposite direction toward the cafeteria. The closer he got, the more he wished he wasn't doing this. He stopped several times to change his mind but the sound of jazz and big band and laughter floating out pulled him forward, if only because it made him think of his Rachel.

He pushed open the door and winced. There was red, white and blue everywhere, a Union Jack tacked up on the back wall and couples swirling dizzyingly around the makeshift dance floor. Taking a deep breath, Peter walked into the room and straight to the punchbowl. He took a glass and sat down, holding his side as he scanned the room for Rachel. Spotting her with Dietrich, he made a face and sipped the red punch. Rachel laughed but it was phony and her posture was too stiff and her smile too weak. If he thought he would be glad to know she was unhappy without him, he was shocked. Instead, his heart clenched tightly, scolding him. Peter swallowed hard and looked away.

Rachel caught sight of him in surprise the moment he walked through the door. He looked handsome and every inch the soldier when he was in his uniform. She realized with a start it was really the first time she had seen him in it; when he came into the hospital, his had been mostly destroyed. Her eyes followed him across the room, though her hand remained on Jonathon's shoulder and she continued making meaningless small talk.

The night passed too slowly and Rachel felt self-conscious in her fitted, red dress with the neckline that was almost too low and the hem that was almost too high. She ran a hand over her face and faked a smile as Jonathon came back with a glass of punch for her. They stood there silently for a long moment before another song came on and he led her too eagerly back to the dance floor. Rachel kept her hand on his shoulder, holding them apart, and so focused was she on doing so, she almost didn't see Peter tapping Jonathon's shoulder to cut in.

She glared at him weakly as he stepped up to take her hand, pulling her automatically much closer than Jonathon had. "What do you want, Pevensie?" she demanded coldly.

"You know everything I want," Peter replied, too serious as his hand squeezed her side. Suddenly the dress didn't feel too low. It felt too warm, too constricting.

Rachel swallowed hard at the look in his eyes, the fierce hurt and determination. "I thought we agreed to-" The song ended and he cut her off with his lips firmly on hers. Rachel gasped in surprise, her arms sliding slightly around his neck in reaction. She moaned, tipping her head to the side before reality seeped in and she realized they were drawing smirking looks. "Peter!"

Wrenching out of his grasp, Rachel flushed a bright, carmine red. She groaned and, darting between people, slipped from the room in embarrassment. Peter heaved a sigh, his hands still out to her, eyes on the door she had run from.

He opened his mouth to call after her but realized she was unlikely to appreciate the _added_ attention so snapped his jaw shut again. Excusing himself through the small crowd, Peter ran out into the hallway. "Rachel?" he called quietly. "Rachel, I'm sorry." Stopping, he listened carefully for her. Hearing something on the small balcony at the end of the hallway, Peter walked quickly toward the sound. "Rachel?"

"Go away," Rachel mumbled, sniffling into her handkerchief.

Peter sighed. "Rachel, I'm sorry." He reached out to set his hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off. "I miss you. It's only been a few days but I miss you. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"I miss you too," Rachel whispered reluctantly after a beat.

"Then what's wrong, darling? Why can't we make this work?" Peter asked quietly, stepping closer to her.

"B-because you-I-oh, Peter, I don't know!" Rachel spun around, burying her face in his chest as she wrapped her arms around him.

Rubbing a hand over her back comfortingly, Peter rested his cheek against her temple. "Shh. It's okay," he whispered.

"But it isn't! He's right, of course, he's right. You don't love me," Rachel mumbled.

Peter froze, his arm around her waist. "Who said I don't love you?" Her silence told him exactly who. "Damn that brother of yours," he growled, pushing her away so he could meet her eyes. "Rachel, I love you, I love you with all my heart and you've made me see what a _fool_ I've been for so long."

Rachel stared at him in shock, her cheeks still streaked with tears and her handkerchief still clutched in her hand. "What?" she finally managed shakily.

"_I love you_." Peter's voice was slow and steady, not wanting her to miss any bit of it.

"Y-you love me? Why couldn't you say that four days ago?" Rachel demanded with hot tears filling her eyes again.

"I-" Peter sighed, dropping his hands to his sides and stuffing them awkwardly in his pockets. "I didn't know if you meant it or if it just came out. I-" Flushing, he looked to his shoes. "No, I'm kidding myself. I may be _experienced_, Rachel, and technically ten years your senior but here… I'm practically still a boy." He looked up at her anxiously. "Saying you love someone is a big commitment. It's more than a kiss or a night or… It's everything."

Rachel's breath caught in her throat and she reached out a hand to brush her fingertips over his cheek. "Oh Peter." She stepped up to him again so they were only inches apart. "To know that? To know what it means to really love someone, to want them and need them and love them unconditionally? It takes more than experience or age. It _is _what makes you a man. You're no boy, Peter Pevensie." She smiled softly, brushing the tip of her nose over his as she kissed him.

Peter's hand came up to rest on her neck, her hair soft beneath his fingers as he wrapped his other arm around her waist. "I'm glad you think so," he whispered against her lips.

"You're also not a man." Richard's voice cut between them, forcing them apart. He appeared in the doorway, a stern look on his face, arms folded over his chest. "And you're certainly not man enough for my little sister."

"Richard! He most certainly is!" Rachel cried indignantly, her hand clenching in Peter's lapel.

"Shh, shh, it's all right, Rachel." Peter pried her hand off him, pushing her gently aside as he stepped in front of her brother. "His quarrel is with me." He drew himself up to too tall, glaring at Richard.

"There is absolutely no reason for the two of you to be _having_ a quarrel at all," Rachel insisted angrily.

"You think you can walk in here, catch her eye and then just break her heart?" Richard shook his head, stepping closer. "You have an impressive nerve."

Peter raised an eyebrow, crossing his own arms. "I would say she took me back, forgave me, and therefore it's none of your business."

"Oh but it is. You see, she's my blood, my darling little redheaded sister. If somebody broke one of your sister's hearts, would you just forgive and forget?" Richard matched the raised eyebrow and smirked. "No, I didn't think so."

"If Susan were really in love with someone, not just flirting, not just-" Peter cut himself off, biting his tongue for a moment before continuing. "If either of them was really in love with someone, it would be their decision."

"Are you Rachel? Are you _in love?_" Richard said mockingly without looking away from Peter's face.

"Yes!" She threw her hands in the air, knowing it would do no good.

Richard grabbed Peter's lapel and pulled him out into the hall, away from Rachel. "You hurt her and you will wish you _hadn't _survived D-Day. And you _will _hurt her. I know your type. You're all the same," he growled.

"I will hurt her, you're right. That's _love_. You don't mean to, you don't want to, but you _do,_" Peter half-yelled.

"Why can't you just give up the act? Tell her it's a fling. Tell her the _truth_. Tell her you're taking away her honor for the sake of your own sick enjoyment and that when you leave, no matter what you promise, you won't ever see her again." Richard's hand fisted tighter and Peter shoved him away.

"It's not a fling. I love that woman more than I have loved anything in a very long time," Peter said, his voice dangerously low.

"It's not a fling? Prove it. Prove you love her," Richard challenged impossibly.

"You want me to prove it?" Peter scoffed, backing up slightly. "All right. All right. You want me to prove it? _You_ want me to prove it, Rachel?" He turned towards her on his heel and before she could answer, he continued. "Marry me. Marry me, Rachel Winstrom, of London, England, British nurse and the most beautiful girl I've ever met," he said, drifting from an angry shout to a sincere murmur. Taking her face in his hands, he met her eyes fiercely. "Marry me," he whispered.

Rachel stared at him in shock, her hands hovering just out from his arms. She opened her mouth to answer but found the words stuck in her throat. "Wh-wh-wh-" Her face broke into a wide smile and Rachel pulled him to her, laughing as she kissed him with everything she had. "Yes," she whispered when they finally pulled away. "Absolutely."

Richard stared in shock as well, but then in bewilderment and horror and defeat.

"For what it's worth?" Peter smirked, a twinkle appearing in his eye. "I love the dress."


	17. Letters to Love

**Letters to Love**

She had accepted. She was going to marry him. _She's going to marry me._ Peter didn't have a clue where the urge or the nerve to ask her had come from but before he knew it, the words were out of his mouth. And he found those simple words were the last thing he could possibly ever regret. Marriage to Rachel, falling asleep next to her every night and waking up with his arms around her every morning, was the only checkbox on his to-do list.

She had accepted. She was going to marry him. _I'm going to marry him._ Rachel smiled in the dark room, tracing the spot where an engagement ring would sit as soon as Peter could afford one. Something extravagant she imagined. He would want a large diamond, something she could show off. The king in him.

She had accepted. She was going to marry him. _She's going to marry him._ Richard ran a hand over his face, sighing. He had seen the look on Rachel's face when Peter kissed her and again when he asked her to marry him. He wasn't sure if it was love but it came closer than anything he had ever felt. Richard groaned, rubbing at his eyes and wishing for sleep. It had all backfired and now he would have to live with that Pevensie boy as family for the rest of his life.

Margaret threw her arms around Rachel, squeezing her happily. "Married! I just can't believe it!" she exclaimed, smiling widely. "I mean, I knew, obviously, the two of you, but _married-_"

Rachel held up a hand, laughing. "Just engaged, still, love," she teased, "Don't get too excited."

"Oh don't be silly! You two will grow old together," Margaret stopped her, tweaking her nose playfully. "No doubts about that."

Rachel shrugged, not doubting it exactly, just uneasy about being too excited, practical as ever. "Well it won't be until after the war at least," she countered. "I probably won't even have a ring until then."

"Oh would you stop it? You're going to be a bride!"

Four days passed in a flurry of congratulations, disapproving glances and unusually warm nights. And then suddenly? Their time together was over, abruptly finished. Peter was shipping across the Channel again to be transferred to somewhere in France. It wasn't far, not really, but they might not see each other for months.

"Peter, don't go," Rachel whispered, his arms around her in the dark. "Run away, back to your family, back to Narnia, go somewhere."

"I can't." Peter didn't bother to wince at the casual mention, just kissed her soundly. He wasn't about to waste precious moments sulking. "I can't and you know it."

"I don't want to lose you. You'll go out there and I might never see you again." Rachel's voice cracked and she pulled him closer. "Don't go."

Peter sighed softly, brushing his lips over her forehead. "Shh. Don't think about it, love. I'll be fine."

They stood alone in a small crowd of people, two feet apart and longing to be in each other's arms. Rachel stepped forward, her hand on his arm. "You'll be fine," she murmured, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "Everything will be just fine."

"They say the war might even be over by Christmas," Peter said brightly, though it lacked conviction, considering they had said the same thing for five years. "Anyway, we won't be apart long."

"No. No, not long." Rachel smiled back, shaking her head despite the tears in her eyes. "Not long at all."

Peter wrapped his arms around her suddenly, not caring anymore. "Everyone knows anyway," he whispered, tipping her head back to kiss her. Rachel laughed softly, curling her fingers in her hair.

"Come on, troops, on deck," a voice called monotonously.

Rachel pulled back, wiping at her eyes. "That's you."

"Not long, you hear? Not long." Peter slung his bag over his shoulder with only a slight wince and walked up the gangplank. She stayed there on the dock long after she was supposed to have returned to the hospital, just watching his ship fade to nothing.

_June 26, 1944_

_My darling Rachel,_

_I have finally settled into camp and found a spare moment to write to you. I am so sorry you did not hear from me sooner. You would love it here; we are right on the water, just like you love. Just like I love. Something we can agree on. Speaking of things we can agree on, I have a small request: I want you to begin planning the wedding. I don't want you to think of this as something in the distant future, something that might never happen. We will be married, my love, and it won't be long now._

_Your humble British soldier,_

_Peter_

_July 4, 1944_

_My humble British soldier,_

_I admit I had grown slightly worried, not hearing from you, but I suppose that is only natural, being a fiancée. I always worry about you, you know, and that reckless streak of yours. As much as I would like to see you, in a hospital is not how I would like to be reunited. _

_Begin planning the wedding already? But it is so far off! I suppose it wouldn't hurt to be a giddy, young bride now and then though. I will try, love. I will not make promises to run off and try on wedding dresses in every spare moment, but I will make a conscious effort if it will make you smile._

_Your loving bride,_

_Rachel_

_July 12, 1944_

_My beautiful Rachel,_

_I promise you, I would not like to be reunited in a hospital either, especially not if your brother is there to drive a scalpel into me. Sincerely, though, I will be careful, as careful as a man can be when fighting for his life. But for you, I will be cautious. I want to come home to you as much as you want to welcome me there. And to think, calling London home does not even feel strange any longer. It will be home, so long as you are there._

_I will have a ring for you as soon as I can. I had thought to give you my grandmother's ring but when I think about it, perhaps it would be better to let Edmund have it and buy you something new-fangled. It would be appropriate, don't you think?_

_Your Peter_

_July 24, 1944_

_Darling Peter,_

_Richard does not hate you as much as you think he does. He is only being a protective older brother, the way I am sure you are with your sisters. You'll see. He will accept you, I promise. Would I lie to you? (Certainly not.)_

_I will be entirely happy with whatever you choose to give me, but perhaps shopping for a new ring together _would _be appropriate, seeing our path up to now. It startles me, really, to see how very far you've come, my Peter. So very far indeed. I would love you if you were still that petulant, angry boy I first met, though, I do hope you know that._

_With all my love,_

_Rachel_

And so they continued, back and forth, written notes of how much they missed each other, a tease in this one and a splash of poetry in that one.

…August…

…September…

…October…

_November 23, 1944_

_My sweet Rachel,_

_I have just received the most wonderful news! I am being given a week's leave to return to London for Christmas with my family. I took the liberty of speaking to your brother on a (rather expensive) phone call just yesterday and it seems you will be allowed home as well. We will be able to spend our first-pardon me, second-Christmas together. And I will finally be able to introduce you to my family. I hope you are as excited as I am._

_With love,_

_Peter_

_December 1, 1944_

_My Peter,_

_I am certainly as excited as you are for to see Hyde Park in winter again will be a treat I had not counted on and to see it from the warmth of your arms is one I had not yet imagined. I will show you a modern Christmas, my king, complete with a tree and presents and twinkling electric lights. It is not fireflies and white roses in snow but it is my favorite time of year. Until Christmas, my love._

_Rachel_


	18. Welcome Home

**Welcome Home**

_December 1944, London_

_King's Cross, he said to meet him at King's Cross…_ Rachel stood at the station, pushing up onto her tiptoes repeatedly, her eyes scanning the crowd. She shivered but not from the cold – her thick, fashionable coat made sure of that. No, she had a sinking feeling about something and she just couldn't place it. He would show, he would come meet her family, the rest of them anyway, he would introduce her to his, he would, he would, he would… Her eyes closed as she chanted the words in her head, her lips moving silently.

"Talking to yourself again?" A warm, quiet voice asked in her ear. Rachel opened her eyes and spun around, a wide smile on her face as all her irrational fears disappeared. She launched herself into his arms, her lips firmly on his in an instant. After so many months, she seemed to have gained a little candor and lost a little self-conscious modesty.

Peter grinned, tangling his fingers in her perfect curls as she kissed him, soft and needy. "Oh I missed you…" she whispered, already never wanting this to end.

"I missed you too, darling," Peter whispered back, wrapping his arms tightly around her and tipping her head back to kiss her more deeply, not caring who was watching.

Finally she pulled away, wiping her lipstick from him with her thumb. "I love you," she murmured, meeting his blue-grey eyes sincerely.

Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a partly-melted chocolate that read the same words. Glancing down at it, Rachel smiled widely and kissed him again, sweeter this time. "Sometimes you can be such a boy," she teased, wrinkling her nose.

Gasping in mock horror, Peter grinned and broke the chocolate in half. He held one half up and she bit it off, crumbs falling into her hand as she laughed. "Maybe I like wooing you," Peter murmured, watching her mischievously lick his fingers clean.

"Well lucky for you, I like being wooed," Rachel said, sliding her arms around his neck and leaning into him, one foot kicking up behind her.

Peter ate his half of the chocolate, grinning wolfishly at her as he swept her up into his arms. "Ready to meet the royalty?" he joked.

"Absolutely," Rachel agreed, kicking her legs until he put her down so he could grab her luggage. "I can't wait to tell them all about our little adventure."

His hand shot out to grab her arm, spinning her around to see a suddenly stern and serious look on his face. "We aren't telling them," he said firmly.

"What? Why not? You can't keep a secret like that from them!" Rachel exclaimed, throwing a hand in the air.

"We are _not_ telling them, do you understand me? It will break each of their hearts to find out Aslan bent the rules for me and not for them," Peter ground out, his voice turning almost harsh.

"You cannot _not_ tell them," Rachel insisted, half-glaring at him indignantly.

"Rachel, you've never even _met _them. You don't have a clue what is best for them and, believe me, we are not telling them. I don't want to hear a peep out of you about it, you hear me?" Peter insisted, tossing her bags up in the rack as they climbed on their train.

Rachel huffed, crossing her arms and sitting down without a word. Sighing, Peter sat beside her and tried to wrap an arm around her shoulders but she shrugged him off, staring stonily out the window.

The train ride out to Finchley seemed far longer than usual, what with Rachel giving him the cold shoulder for no reason. Suddenly she turned toward him, an annoyed look on her face. "What makes you think I need to be _scolded?_" she demanded.

Peter jumped at the abrupt break in her silence. "Scolded? What?"

"You scolded me, Peter, like a child," Rachel hissed in irritation.

"You were acting like one," Peter answered before wincing and reaching for her hand. "I'm sorry, love, it's just a sensitive subject, you know that. Even more so with the others. Lucy thinks we'll all still go back so if I tell her I went, she'll get her hopes up again. Edmund has a complicated theory about us going to Narnia when we die so he'll want to know everything about my injury and will bore us all to cover his jealousy. Susan… Susan's decided Narnia doesn't exist at all. You see why I can't."

Rachel nodded slowly, squeezing his hand and brushing a curl off his forehead. "I do," she promised quietly.

Peter helped her out of their taxi and grabbed the bags while she dug a bit of money out of his pocket to pay the driver. The car pulled away from the curb and they stood there on the sidewalk looking up at the brick townhouse quietly.

"Lovely neighborhood," Rachel murmured finally. Peter nodded, pushing open the little gate that closed off their tiny yard and walking reverently up to the door. Rachel watched him with a heavy heart, not sure what seeing his family again would do to him.

He rang the doorbell and listened to it echo throughout the house, muffled on the other side of the door. After a long moment, footsteps scrambled to the door and Peter knew it was Lucy long before the knob turned. The door flew open and she stood there, nine months older, her hair longer than he remembered, her figure fuller.

Lucy stopped in surprise, breathless, with twigs in her hair and a bowl of cranberries under one arm. "Peter!" she exclaimed, eyes wide. They hadn't even heard from him since he left and for all they knew he was dead; after all, there was all that Helen Duncan business with the sunken ship or what have you in the Mediterranean that they just shut right up in the courts and _those_ families never got word their loved ones were at the bottom of the ocean. (Lucy liked to keep up on these things.) Susan, for one, certainly acted as though he were long buried. All this ran through her head as she stared at him before her eyes darted to the lovely redhead standing at the gate.

Lucy snapped out of her daze and, setting the bowl hastily on the hall table, threw her arms around her brother. Stupidity, be damned, he was her brother and she had missed him dearly. Peter grinned, hugging her tight wordlessly, his face buried in her hair. Behind him, Rachel smiled, thinking back to the picture he had had on him when he first arrived at the hospital.

"Oh Peter, we thought you might be _dead!_" Lucy exclaimed quietly, her voice muffled in his chest, before pulling back. "We missed you so very much and who's the girl, Peter?"

Peter stumbled over his words, a blush creeping over his suddenly young face as he stepped back, motioning Rachel up. Rachel walked forward, fiddling with her purse as she came up beside him. "Hello, you must be Lucy," she murmured, a nervous smile on her face as she held out a hand.

Lucy slowly shook her hand, nodding. "Yes, I am." She glanced up at Peter, Rachel's hand still in her own. "_Peter_, who's, the girl?" she asked again, slower.

"Oh don't be rude, Lucy," Peter grumbled, resting a hand on Rachel's shoulders. "This is Rachel Winstrom. M-my fiancée."

Lucy stared at him blankly, barely registering the words. "Fiancée? As in, betrothed to be married to?"

"Yes, that is the definition," Peter agreed, "And here we all thought you weren't paying attention when Susan pulled out her dictionary."

Turning slowly toward Rachel, Lucy surveyed her, her eyes bordering on impolite. "High Queen…" she whispered reverently before snapping out of it, a bright smile on her face. "Forgive me, Rachel. Just a little shocked is all. I can call you Rachel, can't I? After all, we'll be sisters soon. It will be soon, won't it? Don't let Peter drag it out; he's lost two fiancées that way, did he tell you that? He likes to be engaged but I think he gets nervous about standing up there and kissing a girl in front of all those people."

Peter flushed. No, he _hadn't_ told Rachel that, but she didn't seem to mind because she only chuckled and let Lucy drag her inside. "You can stay in Susan's room; she's hardly ever here at night anyway…" was the last thing he heard before they disappeared upstairs.

"Lucy, wait!" he called suddenly, running up a few steps. The girls turned back, eyebrows raised in question. "Where are the others? Edmund and Susan and Mother?"

"Oh, Mother's at work," Lucy explained, waving a hand, "And Edmund's at the library and Susan… I don't know." She shrugged, unconcerned. "Out, somewhere, I suppose."

Peter nodded slowly, stepping back down to the floor, waving a distracted hand at them.

Lucy led Rachel up to Susan's room, a spacious white bedroom with elegant, washed furniture and sumptuous fabrics. "Susan has expensive taste," Lucy explained, glancing around the neat room with rows of hats on one wall and a vanity cluttered with makeup and hair things.

"Oh, she has lovely taste," Rachel breathed, drawing her fingertips over the bedspread.

Lucy nodded, shrugging a shoulder. "All right, I suppose," she agreed, never quite having got the hang of doing her hair up with rats or wearing those silly hats. "You can either sleep on the chaise or share the bed." She gestured to the white lounge under one window.

"How does she afford all this? She must be terribly frugal," Rachel praised, glancing back at Lucy.

"She works at a hair salon in the city, saves and saves and saves, I guess." Lucy opened the French closet doors and nodded inside. "You can hang your clothes up in here, if you like. There must be a little extra space." She pushed some of Susan's dresses aside and pulled down a few hangers.

"Well I just have the one bag, so hopefully," Rachel agreed, setting the small, brown suitcase on the bed and popping it open.

Lucy quietly helped her hang a few things up before she just couldn't contain her curiosity any longer. "So how did you and Peter meet?" she asked finally.

Rachel smiled at her barely restrained enthusiasm. "At the hospital in Hastings, after Normandy. I'm a nurse, you see."

"Peter was injured? At Normandy?" Lucy's eyes widened in horror, just staring at her.

"Yes, he didn't-He never wrote?" Rachel reached out to squeeze Lucy's arm. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. He was so scared to write back to all of you, after just leaving like that."

"What if he'd died? We might never have known what happened to him." Lucy looked out the window at the grey street, shock crossing her face.

"He didn't," Rachel pointed out softly. "He's all right. That was months and months ago."

"How long have you been engaged?" Lucy asked suddenly, looking back at her.

"About six months." Rachel smiled, a dreamy look crossing her face, her hands pausing in fluffing out a dress. "It was June."

Lucy smiled in spite of herself, placing a few dresses in the closet. "And I'm sure by next June you'll be married."

Peter was standing in front of the fireplace, his hands braced on the mantel, eyes boring into his own painted pair in the family portrait. "Are you King Peter?" he asked quietly. "Or am I?"

"What's that-Oh my god, Peter!" Helen dropped her bags on the floor and in a moment, her arms were around her son. "Oh, Peter, I missed you so much," she whispered, holding him tight.

Peter smiled, hugging her back. "I missed you too, Mother," he murmured.

Pulling back, she framed his face in her hands, tears in her eyes. "Let me look at you… oh, you're so handsome." A smile crossed her face, her anger and terror that he had left without even telling her dissipating instantly.

"_I _think so, anyway," Rachel teased from the doorway, leaning on the frame with her arms folded.

Helen spun around in surprise, surveying the pretty redhead. "I'm sorry, you are?" she asked politely.

"Mother, this is Rachel Winstrom." Peter cleared his throat, stepping forward and leading Rachel into the room by her arm. "My fiancée."

Helen's eyes widened before a smile spread across her face. "Oh my lord, welcome!" she cried, her eyes bright. "My baby boy, getting married… I'm Helen, dear."

Rachel shook her hand, smiling. "It's a pleasure."

"How did the two of you meet? You're British so… how long have you been back, Peter?" Helen asked suddenly, her brow knit in confusion.

"Just today, Mother, I promise," Peter chuckled. "Rachel's a nurse I met on a… brief stay in Hastings."

"A nurse? You were injured?" Worry creased her face and, for the first time, he noticed how much older she looked, more wrinkles, less laugh lines.

"It's all right. I'm fine," Peter promised, reaching out to squeeze her hand in comfort. "_Brief_ stay."

Helen looked as if she didn't quite believe him but nodded. "Well, Rachel, you and I must get to know each other," she smiled.

"That's a hint for help in the kitchen," Rachel joked, leaning up to kiss Peter's cheek as she pulled away from him. "Love you," she whispered, her fingertips touching his as far as she could before following Helen.

Peter's welcome home from Edmund was much less jovial. He came in, nearly frozen fingers working to unbutton his coat, and tripped over Helen's bags on the floor. "Mo_ther!_" he complained loudly, heaving a sigh as he gathered the abandoned bags and made to take them into the living room. Peter was setting the dining table that sat along the edge of the living room as the house didn't have a full dining room, doing his best to be useful, and glanced up at his brother, stopping still, a fork poised over the table.

"Peter." Edmund sounded startled but his expression was as smooth and calm as ever.

"Edmund." Peter nodded shortly, swallowing hard as he searched frantically for something to say.

Edmund straightened, clearing his throat as he set the bags on the couch. He pushed his hands in his pockets, biting his lip, as awkward as Peter. "Soo… when did you get back?" he asked finally.

"This afternoon," Peter nodded, setting the fork down where it belonged. "It's just for a week but it's nice to be back in London, at least for a bit."

Edmund nodded, growing quiet for a long moment before clearing his throat. "Well. I'll just be upstairs in my room. Er, our room." He shook his head and disappeared quickly toward the staircase, leaving Peter sighing over the loss of everything his family had once held dear: respect, trust, and unwavering forgiveness.

Twenty or thirty minutes passed before Helen called Lucy and Edmund down for dinner. Rachel came in with the mashed potatoes steaming in between her oven mitts, catching Edmund off guard. "Who's the redhead?" he hissed to Lucy, standing.

"Peter's fiancée," Rachel smiled, holding her hand out across the table as she set the potatoes in the center.

Edmund stared at her, slowly shaking her hand, obviously shocked. "E-Edmund. Peter's brother," he introduced himself, wide-eyed, before turning to Peter. "When did you get engaged? And to a bombshell?"

"June." Lucy elbowed Edmund and sent him a glare for the comment as she heaped potatoes onto his plate.

It was late and dark and the fire crackling in the fireplace glowed a dim red. Peter's arm rested over her shoulders, the two of them quiet and still in the dark. "They don't hate you, you know," Rachel whispered suddenly.

"I know."

"No, you don't. They don't hate you at all. In fact, they love you so much it hurts; that's why they're so angry with you." Rachel squeezed his hand, nestling closer.

The door opened silently and Susan slipped in unnoticed, hanging her coat on its hook. She started to tiptoe upstairs before realizing someone was in the living room. Pausing, Susan pressed herself against the wall and glanced in the dimly lit room. She gasped quietly to herself at the sight of Peter and the pretty redhead. _Peter!_

"Susan hates me. I haven't even seen her yet but I know she does," Peter sighed quietly, kissing Rachel's temple.

"She doesn't hate you. You're her brother. I promise," Rachel assured him, her fingertips resting on his cheek as she forced him to meet her eyes. "I know how it feels to be a younger sister. You love your big brother unconditionally, even when he tries to stop your wedding."

_I don't, Peter! I don't hate you!_ Susan wanted to cry out, wanted to wrap her arms around him and never let him go again.

"That's different," Peter protested lamely and for a moment she wondered if he wouldn't _rather_ they hated him. "He was only thinking of protecting you. I was only thinking of myself."

Susan tiptoed by the living room and up the stairs, wondering when he got back, how long he would be there and, most importantly, who the girl was. She was still awake when Rachel slipped upstairs to bed, the room dark enough she didn't even notice Susan.

Breakfast was friendly and good-natured until Susan joined them, regally walking down the stairs. "I wasn't aware you would be _coming _home," she said to Peter, her voice clipped but stiffly polite.

"I wasn't either until recently," Peter admitted, clearing his throat as he took Rachel's hand beside him. "Susan, I want you to meet my fiancée, Rachel Winstrom."

Susan stared, her arms folded over her chest. "F-fiancée? You're getting married?"

"That's right." Peter cleared his throat as Rachel stood to shake Susan's hand with a smile.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Rachel nodded to the stairs with a laugh. "Since we're sharing a room."

"Yes, I saw that," Susan agreed, her voice dry and even as she sat down in the empty seat at the table. There was a long beat as they all stared at their plates, unsure how to fix this.

"So we really ought to set up the tree soon," Lucy said cheerfully to break the awkwardness.

"Yes, absolutely," Helen agreed quickly, glancing between her two eldest children, the tension in the room increasing threefold at their lack of even a real greeting after so long.

"Ed and I can go pick one up," Peter said, breaking a roll in half. Surprise flittered across his siblings' faces; Peter always insisted on cutting a tree down, always said 'Christmas tree farms' were travesties and that Christmas was about celebrating the beauty of nature, not the _horrors_ of department stores.

"We can make cranberry garlands," Rachel smiled, nodding to Lucy who grinned back, much to her sister's concealed dismay.

"I think she's nice," Lucy said, laying on her stomach in the back yard, the sun finally having emerged from the clouds.

"And- pretty," Edmund agreed, clearing his throat at the roll of his sisters' eyes.

"She is nice and she is pretty but she's completely changing Peter," Susan protested, her voice disbelieving that they could so easily accept her.

"Changing how?" Lucy squinted up at her sister sitting on the plank swing hanging from a tree.

"Did you hear him? Go _pick up_ a tree? That's just completely not Peter!" Susan cried, the excuse limp even to her own ears. "Besides, he never even wrote to tell us he had met someone, let alone was engaged. He just _showed_ up with her."

Edmund sighed, flicking at a blade of grass. "Just let him be happy. I know we're all still upset with him, but he's _Peter_."


	19. Merry Christmas

**Happy Christmas**

The taxi dropped them outside Winstrom Antiques and they stood in front of the small shop, her red gloved hand in his and a stiff, green scarf around his neck. "I promise they aren't as scary as Richard," Rachel murmured, though she sounded a bit worried.

"I'm sure," Peter agreed, nodding, but didn't move from his spot on the damp sidewalk.

Rachel groaned, pulling him forward. "Oh come on. We already faced your family; we can do it again!" She pushed open the front door, the bell jingling cheerfully, and led him inside.

The shop was warm and welcoming, the scent of cinnamon and cloves in the air. Shelves of old books lined one wall and Rachel walked sure-footedly through the maze of tables, knickknacks and furniture.

"Helloo_oo_!" A woman's cheerful voice called from somewhere near the back and Rachel grinned, squeezing his hand before pulling away to pull her gloves off.

"Happy Christmas…" she sing-songed, following the voice.

There was a beat and then: "Rachel? Is that you?" A woman with grey streaks in her red hair popped out from behind a tall cabinet with a 'sale' tag on the side. "Rachel!" She wrapped her arms around her, hugging her tight. "You didn't say you would be home for Christmas! Is Richard with you?"

"No, they needed him at the hospital," Rachel sighed her apologies as she pulled back, kissing her mother's cheek. "Actually, they needed me too but he got me cleared for a week, isn't it wonderful?"

"Absolut- Oh, _Rachel_, this must be the mysterious fiancée!" she cried suddenly, her hands on Rachel's arms but her eyes on Peter.

"Yes, that would be me," Peter laughed, his hands self-consciously in his pockets. He pulled one out to shake her hand. "Peter Pevensie, ma'am."

"Yes, Mum, this is Peter, Peter this is my mum, Joan," Rachel smiled, stepping back to squeeze his free arm.

Joan shook his hand, a wide smile on her face. "Oh you're handsome," she said, sending Rachel an approving look.

Rachel blushed, half-rolling her eyes. "_Mum_," she hissed in embarrassment.

"Tell me you've lightened her up a little; she's so uptight," Joan told Peter conspiratorially, eyeing Rachel with a teasing smirk.

Peter laughed out loud, instantly at ease with this friendly, jovial woman. "She's lightened me up so maybe I've returned the favor."

"Excellent." Joan grinned, pulling back, her hand reaching up to cup Rachel's cheek. "Oh I'm so happy for you both. Roger! Come say hello to your daughter!" she called, leaning back to glance up the flight of stairs against the back wall.

Shuffling floated down from the loft above before a tall Irishman with dark hair and rumpled clothes appeared, dusting crumbs off his shirt. "Ahh, there's my little girl," he smiled, muffling Rachel's chuckling as he wrapped his arms around her.

"Hi, Daddy," she murmured, hugging him tightly before pulling back. "Daddy, this is Peter."

Peter held a hand out to the man, holding his breath with a prayer. "It's great to finally meet you, sir."

"I've heard conflicting opinions on you, son. Rachel, here, gushes that you're the best thing to ever happen to her but my son seems to think you're the Devil in disguise," Roger said with a raised eyebrow, his arm around Rachel's shoulders.

"Daddy!" Rachel blushed again, silently swearing to yell at Richard the next chance she got.

Peter pushed his hand in his pocket again, glancing awkwardly at the floor. "Richard doesn't like me much," he agreed. "But I have younger sisters so I understand."

"And then of course there's the matter of asking for my daughter's hand, which you didn't do," Roger said, but his lips twitched at Joan's sigh of exasperation and he chuckled, reaching out to pat Peter's shoulder. "I know. It's wartime. Don't look so petrified, son."

Peter relaxed, sighing a laugh. "If it's any consolation, I had every intention of asking while we're in town," he said.

"Oh don't worry about it, Peter. Roger's just flexing his fatherly muscles," Joan huffed, waving a hand. "I have tea on, would anyone like any?"

"That sounds lovely, dear, why don't we dig out some of the gingerbread too?" Roger suggested, kissing her cheek.

"Of course. Sit, sit," Joan insisted, motioning to one of the many tables in the shop. The three of them sat down and Joan quickly returned with a platter of gingerbread, a pot of tea and a stack of cups.

"So what is it that you do, Peter? I mean, usually, when you're not soldiering?" Roger asked, taking one of the cups as she filled it and handing it to Rachel.

"Peter's a writer," Rachel jumped in, sipping at her tea. "Like you, Daddy."

"Really. You write fiction?" Roger's interest was obviously piqued judging by the way he sat forward.

Peter flushed, sending annoyed embarrassment her way which she met with a cheeky grin. "Uh, yes, I do. It's really just a hobby though…"

"What have you written? Short stories or longer?" Roger narrowed his eyes at him intently, shooting off questions.

"Um… I, uh…"

"Longer," Rachel supplied. "He has a novel he's working on, though he hasn't let me read it yet."

Joan sat down, nibbling on a slice of gingerbread. "Well, well, what's it about?"

Peter ran his fingers through his hair, turning an adorable shade of pink. "I'm not sure. It's just scratching."

"Nonsense," Rachel scoffed under her breath.

Joan smirked, smoothly changing the subject. "Is there any chance we can get the two of you here for Christmas dinner?"

"Ohh, Mum, I'm sorry, we had already planned to have it at Peter's house." Peter cleared his throat and she amended quickly, "Peter's _family's_ house."

"I'm sure we can fit two more in at the table, though. We would be happy to have you," Peter offered, already liking his future in-laws.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose…" Joan protested.

"It's not a problem. I'd love to have you meet my family," Peter promised, watching Joan and Roger share one of those silent conversations only couples who have been married for twenty-five years can pull off.

"You know, we would love to meet them," Roger agreed with a smile. "Just give us a time."

"_Oh please, Mother, please!" Lucy cried, her tiny hands clasped together as she looked up at Helen from beneath thick, curled eyelashes. "Look at it, isn't it beautiful?"_

_The old wardrobe had white paint peeling off its sides and the hinges squealed unbearably when the door was opened but the little girl really seemed to have her heart set on it. _

"_If you can save the money, I'll pay for some of it," Helen agreed, wondering how her youngest had managed to wrap every one of them around her finger._

_It took Lucy almost a year to save all of her coins but the armoire was still there when Peter took her to pick it up from the antique store. A pretty redhead took the money and had Peter not been so consumed by the sheer happiness on his sister's face, he might have noticed just how pretty. _

The door swung shut behind them as they walked back out onto the chilly sidewalk, a bell ringing cheerfully. Peter glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed as the memory flashed through his mind. Fate, it would seem, had had a hold of him all along. A small grin pulled at the corners of his mouth and he stopped Rachel with his hand in hers. "Hey." She turned back and he surveyed her face as if seeing her for the first time. "I love you."

Rachel smiled softly and let him pull her in close. "I love you too," she whispered.

Ice skating in Hyde Park. It was the only thing Rachel was missing for her Christmas to be utterly and perfectly complete. Peter had insisted over and over that he simply could not stay upright on the ice but he trailed behind her anyway as she paid for skates.

"It's easy, I _promise_." She laced up her own pair as he struggled to get his on and pulled him out onto the ice. Peter wavered, clutching her hand tightly.

"You know, in my experience, one is supposed to avoid ice. One tends to fall through it and freeze to death," he remarked dryly.

"Oh stop it." Rachel rolled her eyes, letting go of his hand to spin a graceful figure-eight. "See, just like this."

Peter shook back and forth before his feet flew out from under him and he landed squarely on his rear. "Peter!"

Groaning, he pulled himself to sit up and met her eyes, gloved hands pressed over her mouth. "I'm all right," he assured her stiffly before nodding to the side of the rink. "I'll just be right over there."

"Oh no, no, no." Rachel shook her head, grabbing his hand and helping him to his feet. "If I promise to hang on, will you stay?" She pouted slightly, eyes wide, and he couldn't resist.

"You're smashing it! Move, Peter!"

Peter groaned, pushing down the side of the tree that had been perfect at the lot so it could fit through the door. "Lift it _up_, you're going to drop it like that!" he cried.

"I am not going to _drop_ it," Edmund insisted irritably, shoving the tree in so his brother stumbled backward and fell to the floor with the evergreen on top of him.

"Ha! Serves you," Edmund growled, but the effect was somewhat lost in his snickering. Peter glared at him between pine needles, a look of threatened retribution that Ed knew quite well.

Rachel emerged from the living room at the loud crash and stopped, her hands held up and sticky with cranberries. Her eyes crinkled around the edges as she tipped her head back in a laugh. "Oh, stop laughing and help me up," Peter grumbled from the floor, trying to lift the heavy tree off himself with his brother and his fiancée standing over him, wide smiles on their faces.

Stooping over him, Rachel grinned wickedly and pressed her lips to his instead, sticky hands on his cheeks. Peter chuckled, running his fingers over her cheek as she kissed him, upside down. "Are you going to let me up?" he asked quietly, still grinning, as she pulled back.

Rachel stood, helping Edmund pull the tree upright and winking at Peter as he climbed to his feet. He caught her around the waist and dragged her into the kitchen, laughing and shrieking. "Peter-" Her protest was cut off by flour dousing her festively red head. She froze, eyes squeezed shut as she blew the white powder off her nose. "Ohh…" Rachel blinked her eyes open to find him standing in front of her looking _terribly_ smug.

"Peter, don't _waste_ it!" Helen scolded, holding back a laugh at the look on Rachel's face.

"Peter Pevensie…" Rachel glared, stepping forward so she had to crane her neck back to meet his eyes. "If we weren't standing under mistletoe, I would have to give you the cold shoulder for the rest of the day."

He glanced up at the small green ball hanging in the kitchen doorway and grinned, sweeping her up off her feet. Kissing her dramatically, Peter held her tight and couldn't help remembering the first time he had kissed her under mistletoe, joking and teasing in front of an entire Narnian court. She wrapped her arms around his neck, softening as she thought of the same thing.

If only they could share the incident. Edmund, at least, would be sure to appreciate it.

News of Narnia, though, would only spoil their Christmas.

Susan watched her brother and his fiancée from the corner of the living room where she stood grudgingly setting the table. She sniffed, wondering why the girl bothered her so much. Maybe it was because she was so much older than Peter. Or maybe because, because… Really, there was nothing she had found to dislike about Rachel. She was perfectly nice and Peter was obviously in love with her.

If she were being honest with herself, it wasn't Rachel she had a problem with. It was Peter. Susan glanced up at him as he wandered into the living room to get a fire going. He stacked the logs silently, feeling her eyes boring into him, and struck a match. Tossing it onto the fire, he knelt in front of the hearth to stoke the small flame.

"Still hate me, then, I guess," he murmured finally without looking up.

"Why would I hate you?" Susan asked innocently, her voice hard.

"Oh come on, Susan." Peter stood with a sigh, dusting his hands off on his pants. "We've done some pretty awful things to each other in all these years but this was the worst, the most unforgivable and even _I_ know that."

Susan clenched her jaw tightly together. "I don't _hate_ you. I'm _angry_ with you, but I don't hate you."

Sighing softly, Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry. I'm so… _bloody_ sorry. We all dealt with it in our own way. I just dealt badly."

"Dealt with what?" Susan looked up with squinted eyes, though her voice was gentler, not so frustrated.

"With-" Peter stopped, his brow knit in confusion. "What do you mean, 'dealt with what'? With _Narnia_, Susan." He glanced around to be sure no one was listening and scooted closer to the table.

"Narni- Oh for heaven's sake, you aren't still on that silly game, are you? I should think a real war would have finally snapped you out of that! Peter, _honestly_. It's just us. You don't have to keep playing along." Susan rolled her eyes, stepping around the table to set a bowl of flowers in the center.

Peter swallowed hard, glancing at the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering how he had _hoped_ and _prayed_ Susan had gotten over this silly notion. It would seem _she_ hadn't dealt with it at all. "Right. Of course," he murmured, looking back up at her with a sad smile.

Susan turned to face him, half a grin putting a familiar dimple in her cheek. "Come on. Help me get the boxes of decorations up from the basement."

Nodding, Peter shuffled along behind her to the small access stairway at the back of the house. She pulled the door open and flicked the light on but paused to look over her shoulder at him. "I really am glad you're here for the holidays, Peter."

Peter nodded slightly, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. "I know."

They ate a light dinner, cheerful conversation flitting between them. It seemed Peter had managed to make up with his siblings, or at least they had decided to put aside their differences for their favorite time of year, and everyone wore smiles by the time supper was finished.

Peter and Edmund strung the tree with big, bright bulbs in yellow and blue and red so it glowed in the window by the fireplace while the girls sat on the couch and the floor making garlands of popcorn and cranberries.

Susan and Lucy pored through the small collection of Christmas boxes, finding long, red stockings to hang over the mantle and fragile glass ornaments for the tree.

"Here, plug these in and see if they work," Peter murmured, handing Edmund a tangled strand of lights.

"Bollocks, we'll never get these undone," Ed complained, just the way he did every year as he shook the lights so they lit up. Peter smiled slightly to himself at the comment and glanced over at the others, feeling happy and at home for the first time in- years.

"What is it?" Edmund eyed him carefully, wondering what the introspective smile was all about.

Peter met his eyes and his brother was startled to find calm in the light blue. "Nothing. Just happy, is all."

Edmund smiled slowly, making a silent note to thank this _Rachel_ for bringing their brother back to them. "Come on, what's the hold up?" he asked good-naturedly, nudging Lucy as he glanced away. "We've got a tree to decorate!"

It looked beautiful when it was all done. No, electricity didn't have quite the same magic as fireflies but there was something uniquely captivating about their living room all decked out for Christmas Eve. Peter sat on the couch with his arm around Rachel as they shared a gingerbread cookie, Susan and Edmund engaged in a tense game of chess, Lucy watched them all with wise, loving eyes from the hearth and Helen couldn't help feeling that for the first time in years, they were all just the way they were supposed to be.

Lucy woke everyone up far too early, the radio downstairs blaring modern Christmas music throughout the house. They all trudged downstairs in their pajamas, grumbling and growling that it was entirely too early in the morning to be getting up but the lit Christmas tree and the smell of cinnamon and spice from the oven quickly drew smiles from them. Presents labeled from _Father Christmas_ and from Peter to Lucy and Lucy to Edmund and Helen to Susan and even one for each of the children from _Dad_ that Helen had received in the mail and tucked away for them until wrapping paper covered the floor.

Cinnamon buns and hot cocoa made for a guilty pleasure of a breakfast and even Peter knew the words when they all sung along to _White Christmas_ on the radio, wishing for snow of their own.

Roger and Joan arrived around three, bearing a fruitcake and pot of mulled cider, their cheeks flushed from the cold outside. The table was a little bit crammed, what with eight people seated at it, but it was comfortable even so, if only because it was family.

There was no turkey but Helen had managed to scrimp enough for a roast and it was Christmas dinner even so. The tree glowed in the corner and a fire kept the little house toasty.

For one night, nothing extraordinary had ever happened to their little family. For one night, they were normal and happy and there were no secrets between any of them.

Peter tied a piece of red ribbon around Rachel's finger as they finished washing the dishes in the kitchen. "I'm sorry we didn't get to look for a ring," he whispered, burying his face in her hair.

"This is perfect," she disagreed with a smile, holding her hand up to the light so the ribbon stood out against her pale skin. "I won't ever take it off. In fact…" She paused, snipping off another piece and tying it around his finger. "There. You're mine. Don't ever forget it," she teased.

Peter framed her face in his hands, leaning in to kiss her softly. "Never," he whispered back.

_Happy Christmas_.


	20. Bombs Dropping

**Bombs Dropping**

"It was such a pleasure to meet you all," Rachel said with a soft smile, shaking Helen's hand. "I only wish we could stay a little longer."

"Duty calls, sweetheart," Peter murmured, leaning in to kiss her cheek, their small bags clutched in his hand.

"This time next year, maybe we'll be sending you _home_ after Christmas." Helen smiled, eyes twinkling as she squeezed Rachel's hand. Pulling back, she hugged Peter quickly as the others said goodbye to Rachel. "I love you," she whispered in his ear. "Come home, Peter, you've got a bride waiting for you now."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut tightly. "I know. I love you, Mother."

The cab honked as it pulled up and Rachel stepped back, sliding her hand into his. She didn't _want _to leave. She didn't want to say goodbye to these people she found so easy to love, even if it was obvious Susan didn't particularly love her back, nor was Peter on perfect terms with his younger siblings. There was something holding her back, that feeling she had had at the train station the day he left the hospital.

Peter helped her into the cab and Rachel tucked her dress under her as she sat down, her bag at her feet, and squeezed his hand beside her. The door shut with a heavy thud and she leaned around him to wave at the family outside.

"You all right?" Peter's voice was soft and quiet, brow knit in worry.

"I'm fine. Just a bit…" Rachel shrugged. "I don't know. Just a strange feeling."

Peter wrapped his arm around her shoulders, holding her close as they pulled away from the curb. Kissing her temple, he sighed softly. "I know what you mean."

"I don't want to leave London yet. And on New Year's Eve, too." Rachel tipped her head back to kiss him. "By tonight we'll be back in Hastings and I probably won't even see you."

Peter rested his head on the back of the seat, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Suddenly, he leaned forward and tapped the driver's shoulder. "Take us to the nearest hotel."

"What? Peter, we'll be late getting back; we can't stop anywhere!" Rachel protested.

"It's New Year's Eve. We can at least celebrate for a little while." Peter cupped her cheek, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I don't want to go back there, back where I might not come home from, without saying goodbye to you."

They were already on the outskirts of the city so the hotel was small and a bit shabby but they managed to scrounge up a bottle of bourbon – champagne was a little out of their meager budget – and enjoy themselves for a little while. Rachel lay in his arms, the bottle resting in her lap on the cream sheet that clung to both their bodies. "I love you, you know that, right?"

Peter's lips ghosted across her skin, over her collarbone and up her neck. "Yeah. Yeah, I know that."

"How did you get the room?" Rachel asked for the fourth time, her hand resting on his smooth cheek as he lifted himself over her again.

Glancing up to meet her eyes, Peter smirked. "We're on our honeymoon."

Rachel pursed her lips, trying to hide a chuckle. "You're terrible, you know _that_, right?"

"Mhmm. Would you have me any other way?" Peter propped himself up on his elbow, stealing the bottle and pressing it to his lips with a grin.

"Happy New Year, baby," Rachel teased, stealing the bottle back and setting it on the nightstand before framing his face in her hands.

"Happy New Year."

---

They were only a few hours later than they were supposed to be so they weren't really _late_, just delayed. Peter spent the night down the hall, his dreams peppered with Rachel enough that he woke up with a smile on his face.

The way she clung to him at the station, however, put that icy fear back in his heart. "I don't want you to go. Run away, Peter. Go somewhere," she whispered, crying on his shoulder.

"Rachel, we've been _through_ this." Peter sighed, tipping her chin up in his hand to kiss her. "I love you and I _will_ come back, safe and sound."

"Promise?" Her voice shook as she spoke, tears spilling over her cheeks.

"Yes. I _promise_. And when this war is over, we're going to pick out a ring for that pretty hand of yours and I'm going to marry you," Peter whispered, even as the man was calling from the train. "I have to go. I'll be back as soon as the Big Three get their heads screwed on straight," he teased, kissing her hard before grabbing the bar and swinging up into the train.

She waved until the train was out of sight, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.

---

_February 1945_

The world may have been holding its breath, the war would be over so soon, but Hastings wasn't finished taking a beating. The bombs continued to fall, destroying the town, one little piece at a time and when they hit the marina, so very close to the hospital, Peter could no longer take the daily concern over whether or not his beloved Rachel was even alive.

"Please, sir, I need to know if she's all right," he half-begged his commanding officer.

"Pevensie, I can't let you just run off. We're in the middle of a _war_, if you hadn't noticed!" the man roared back.

"Fine. _Fine_. But just because you won't _let_ me, doesn't mean I _won't_." Peter slammed the door behind him and it bounced off the hinges. He was on a bus taking the rocky ride along the coast to Hastings within the hour, permission _not_ granted.

He passed crumbled building after crumbled building as he entered the city and fear seized him more with each one. The bus dropped him off at the stop and he ran the rest of the way to the hospital.

It was intact. Rachel was fine.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief. A plane roared overhead and he mentally identified it as a ME109 before his eyes widened. _A Messerschmitt 109_.

The east side of the hospital exploded right before his eyes, knocked him back into the window behind him. When he recovered, Peter found himself lying in a pile of glass, fire pouring out of the windows of the hospital.

"_Noo!_ No, no, god, _Rachel!_" Peter was on his feet, even though blood ran sticky down his cheek and his hands and arms were covered in tiny glass scratches. He bolted out of the broken window and ran across the street, straight into the portion of the building still standing. "Rachel! Rachel, can you hear me?" he cried out frantically, pushing aside debris and fallen equipment.

Looking around the room, Peter felt tears sting his eyes, though even he wasn't sure if it was only from the smoke. Already wounded soldiers lay beneath collapsed beds everywhere and broken glass littered the floor. There was blood on the walls and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts.

"_Rachel!_" Peter tossed things aside, searching for anyone still alive. "Anyone?"

"He-ere…" a voice answered brokenly, choking on the end. Peter pushed his way to the hallway and dug the man out.

"I want you to stay right here," he said firmly. "I will be _right_ back." Peter helped the man sit up and ran down the hallway as fast as he could. "Anyone else? Anybody?"

"Over here! Help, I'm stuck!" Richard pushed at the table crushing his legs and Peter darted over to help.

"Thank god you're all right. Where's Rachel?" Peter demanded, pulling the table off and helping Richard up.

"Come on, we got to get out of here before this whole place collapses," Richard said without really answering.

"_Richard_. Where is Rachel?" Peter asked sharply, even as he helped Richard limp out. He emerged with the two men, one after the other and still hadn't gotten his answer.

Richard swallowed hard, clapping a hand down on Peter's shoulder as two men emerged from the crowd that had gathered and helped him onto a stretcher beside the ambulance. "I'm sorry, Pete. She was in surgery," he murmured roughly, nodding to the burning building as the rest of it collapsed flat to the ground.

Peter stared at him in horror before turning and _trying_ to run back into the building. Somebody reached out to restrain him but he barely felt them as he fell to his knees, sobbing.

---

"Rachel, honey, I'm so sorry." Rachel clung to her brother, her tears soaking his shirt.

"How can he be gone?" she demanded between choking sobs. "How can he be _dead?_ My Peter, dead!"

"He died trying to save as many people as he could. He died a hero, doesn't that count for anything?" Richard asked softly, holding her close.

"I _love_ him, Richard! So, _no_, it doesn't count for anything! The man I love is _dead! _It doesn't really matter _how_ he got that way!" Rachel pulled back to yell at him, one hand resting on the slight bump on her stomach.

Richard swallowed hard over his anger as his eyes skimmed down her growing figure, faking tears to cover it. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say to you right now."

Sinking into a chair, Rachel wiped at her eyes. "You can tell me he's alive, he'll be home soon and _I'm not pregnant_."

"That, I really can't help you with. You should have thought about that before you fell into bed with a man that might as well have been sentenced to die."

---

_March 1945_

"Dad, I want you to take her out of the city, give her a change of scenery and, most importantly, save her reputation," Richard insisted, his voice low as he spoke with his father on the phone.

Rachel rested against the doorway, her hand rubbing her stomach as she listened to her brother's half of the conversation until she was sure he had won. Now she might never get her chance to give her condolences to Peter's family. Such lovely people, too.

"Where are they taking me?" Rachel asked quietly as he emerged from his office.

"Countryside. Where you'll be safe and you can rest. I don't want anything to happen to you." Richard kissed her forehead tenderly, his hand wrapping around the back of her neck over her hair.

"What about Peter's family? Don't I even get to _see_ them?" Rachel demanded, though her voice remained soft and quiet.

"No, actually. I'm sorry, dear, but a telegram came for you earlier today from his mother. She wanted to let you know she was terribly sorry but she's afraid it will just be too hard on the other children if you try to see them," Richard murmured, a touch of disdain in his voice.

"That's-" Rachel started to protest but her face fell as she sighed. "Fair, I suppose. That's fair."

---

_August 1945_

"I can't bloody _find_ them!" Peter threw a book at the wall in frustration.

"Watch your language," Edmund quipped from the top bunk. "Can't find who?"

"The _Winstroms!_ They shut their shop down right after Rachel-" Peter's voice caught in his throat and he let out a shaky breath. "They just disappeared into thin air. I've got to find them."

"Why, Peter?" Edmund asked quietly, sliding down the short ladder to the floor.

"Because-Because-Oh, I don't know." Peter turned around to meet his brother's eyes, tears in his own. "I miss her so much, Ed. It's like a part of me has gone missing."

"Talking to them will only make things worse," Ed pointed out. "You'll rip open those wounds of yours, Peter. And I _don't_ mean these." He tapped Peter's chest where so many scars marred his skin beneath the cloth there.

"I know. I just _miss_ her. I loved her, you know. I've never loved a woman, not really, not the way I loved her. I don't think I'll ever love anyone else the way I loved her." Peter sighed and sank back onto the chair at his desk.


	21. Lovers & Friends

A/N: It's a short one, mostly filler but important filler!! I will try to get the final chapter up as soon as possible. I can't believe it's almost done – thanks for everybody's help and support!

**Lovers & Friends**

"_It's definitely a yes, Miss Winstrom," the doctor murmured as he came back into the tiny room. Rachel sat on the bunk, her back to the wall and her knees tucked up to her chest. She paled, glancing up at him. _

"_I-I'm pregnant?"_

"_I'm afraid so," he confirmed quietly, patting her arm. _

_Rachel held her hand out in front of her, the red ribbon tied on her finger seeming so naively romantic and insignificant now. "He's a soldier. I don't know if he'll make it out of this war alive," she whispered._

"_I don't know if _I'll_ make it out of this war alive," the doctor pointed out with a soft sigh._

"_What do I do?" Rachel asked, looking up at him with fear and loneliness in her eyes._

"_You'll wait it out. They say the war will be over soon," he said wryly, tucking his clipboard under his arm as he walked out._

That had been the day the hospital was destroyed, the day her brother verbally murdered her fiancée, the love of her life. And she didn't even know it because she had been at a hospital in Westham, a half hour away.

She gave the baby up, a beautiful little boy with blond hair and blue eyes and a smile she knew would break hearts someday. He was only three days old when they took him home. She never knew his name, never knew what his dreams were, didn't get to see him grow up. He was her baby, _their_ baby, but he was just a nameless face that haunted her dreams.

She went back to work in Hastings when they rebuilt the hospital after the war. Half the people in her life that she cared about had been killed there. Maybe it was morbidity that drew her. Maybe it was a need to be close to him.

---

Peter met lots of girls, blonds, Brits, Americans, brunettes, Chinese, even a handful of redheads, but none of them so much as turned his head. He never stopped wearing the red Christmas ribbon she had tied on his finger in 1944, even though it grew tattered and worn over the years.

He never located the Winstroms. It would seem they didn't want to be found. Whether that was due to him or due to Richard, he couldn't decide.

His family gave him his space but slowly, over time, he came back to them. He wouldn't ever be the same again, he loved her too much, but they could accept that, even Susan. He seemed more human to her, it seemed, with a broken heart than he had trying to be a boy-king in a man's world.

---

1949 dawned and, though it was just another year to everyone else, to Peter, and to his siblings, it felt strange. As though they were on the very edge of something important. For months, they talked about it, the odd sensation that they were being pulled apart. For months, all Susan talked about was her trip to America, how she was going to see New York and meet a handsome American man.

February of 1949, Rachel was complaining of pains and headaches. By April, she had been diagnosed with a brain tumor.

And then it happened. They should have known. A train derailed, killing almost every single person they loved.

Edmund.

Lucy.

Helen and David.

The Professor and Polly.

Eustace and Jill.

Peter.

Everyone except Susan. She wore black for a year, the fashionable veil over her face conveniently hiding the tears. They may have all but hated her in the end, but she never stopped loving them.

The tumor took Rachel in June, her family's tears not enough to save her. For the rest of his life, her father would dedicate his novels to her memory. Her mother closed the new shop in Willenhall every year on Rachel's birthday and visited her grave, a simple headstone with the words:

_Rachel Virginia Winstrom__  
Lover & Friend  
1922-1949_

Richard never forgave himself.

But their love story wasn't over yet.


	22. Heaven and Earth

A/N: Well, this is it. I can't believe I've finished it. It's craziness! Almost two years and I'm finally done. Hopefully you've all enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it – it's been a lot of fun. I plan to go through and do some revisions, so I will post an author's note chapter when all the tweaking is finished.

Thank you to Metonomia who nudged me on the last several months and got me to write, what? Eight, nine chapters? You're fabulous!

And thank you to all of you who stuck with me through an eight-month hiatus. You're awesome too!

Without further ado…

**Heaven and Earth**

_Once upon a time, Peter had been a sweet, if serious, young boy. He could be a bit pig-headed but he took care of his family when his father went to war. He protected them and even though he didn't always get along with them, he loved them very much. _

_And then something extraordinary happened to him. He was only a boy, but he became a king. He ruled with his brother and sisters at his side, a High King of a distant, mythical land. It wasn't a figment of their imagination, nor had it happened by chance._

_There was a pair of hands guiding each of the pitfalls and triumphs into Peter's life. Or, a set of paws, anyway._

_Aslan, the King of Kings, whatever you prefer to call Him. Peter called him friend._

_But Peter strayed and even Aslan knew it wasn't entirely the boy's fault. Not everyone has it in them to have faith forever, not when tragedy after tragedy befalls them. Peter had been given a fairy-tale life with castles and power and money. And then he had it all ripped away without warning or ceremony. Few could withstand such a torment with their wits about them._

_Peter was angry. He felt betrayed and rightly so, especially when he was told he would never again return to the land where he was hailed as a legend, a hero, a magnificent warrior, despite his young face._

_So Aslan developed a Plan._

_That Plan included a beautiful redheaded woman, who would have absolutely no knowledge what role she would play in the salvation of Peter's soul until long after the fact._

_All she would know was that she loved him unconditionally._

"There _was_ a real railway accident," said Aslan softly. "Your father and mother and all of you are – as you used to call it in the Shadowlands – dead. The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." (_The Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle_, pg 210)

Peter listened and he smiled joyfully as though his heart could not contain all the good he felt, but still, when Aslan had turned to attend to others, he stood on the edge of the great path that led to the Real England, and he felt sadness. Something akin to sadness, anyway, as Lucy had already pointed out they could not actually feel anything that might be called _bad_. Still, it _felt_ bad and even worse in this perfect place.

Edmund set his hand on his brother's shoulder, a knowing look in his eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly, sure he already knew.

"I just have to walk right down there, right across this valley, and I'll see her again," Peter murmured. "I just have to take a few steps, a short jaunt, and she could be in my arms again, Ed."

"So go," Edmund said, his voice gentle as he squeezed Peter's shoulder. "You deserve to be happy, Pete, and if you can't be with the woman you love in heaven, where else _can_ you be happy?"

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, turning to wrap his arms around his brother, pulling strength from him. "It feels like an eternity I've been without her, not four years."

Edmund didn't answer, just let him hold on until he could stand on his own again, emotionally, anyway. "Go," he murmured again, nodding to the long path that would lead Peter back to his Rachel.

Swallowing hard, Peter nodded and walked hesitantly onto the path.

---

Rachel's eyes opened slowly and as she focused she found herself looking up at Margaret. "M-Margaret?" she clarified, her voice hoarse.

Margaret smiled widely, helping her sit up. "Yes, yes, it's me!"

"Margaret, you're alive!" Rachel launched herself into Margaret's arms, much to the other woman's surprise.

Margaret laughed out loud. "Not exactly, love."

Rachel pulled back slowly, her brow knit in confusion. "Not exactly alive?"

"You're just dead, dear," she said kindly, patting Rachel's arm.

Rachel stared at her for a long moment. "I'm what?"

"You're dead. It's all right. It's quite a shock for some people but you'll get used to it," Margaret assured her.

"I-I'm dead… _Peter_." Rachel's eyes widened, growing wet. "Where is he? I have to see him. Does he know?" she asked rapid-fire.

Margaret arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean, dear? Your Peter? What about him?"

"Peter. He's dead. He-he died that day at the hospital, with you," Rachel said in a rush, her voice thick.

"Peter wasn't _at_ the hospital that day, Rachel," Margaret murmured slowly. "At least, I never saw him."

"But you've seen him since then, of course, haven't you? Where _is_ he?" Rachel demanded, her hands gripping her friend's arms too tightly.

"I don't think you understand. Peter… isn't dead. I would have seen him, I'm sure."

"He is, he is! He saved Richard and then ran back inside and the building collapsed on him and-and…" Rachel trailed off, her eyes filling with tears, unable to comprehend what could possibly have happened. A rock glanced off the window and they both jumped, Rachel wiping her eyes with her fingertips as Margaret opened the window.

"Well what do you know…" she breathed in surprise, stepping back and gesturing to the open second-story window. Rachel stood slowly and looked out to find Peter standing there with his hands on his hips, staring up at her. He trembled visibly when he saw her and she darted to the door, running quickly down the stairs and outside. Launching herself into his arms, she clung tightly to him.

"Oh _Peter_." "God, my Rachel, my beautiful Rachel."

He wrapped his arms around her, one hand resting on the back of her head at the soft, red hair there. "Oh, darling, I've missed you so much. Not a _day_ has gone by that I haven't wished you were with me."

"When Richard told me… I lived with a broken heart all these years, Peter," she whispered, brushing her lips over his.

"Oh, me to-" Peter pulled away, his hands on her arms. "What?"

"When Richard told me. I collapsed, Peter. Barely got out of bed for two weeks." Rachel brushed her fingers over his cheek, taking him in, a few years older, but still her Peter.

"How did Richard tell you anything?" Peter asked in confusion, pausing. "H-how long have you been here?" His heart clenched in horror, not quite believing Richard would be capable of hating him _that much_.

"I'm not sure. Something tells me time runs a bit differently here. But the last thing I remember it was '49," Rachel murmured, still not understanding.

"1949…" Peter's eyes hardened and he wrapped her in his arms, holding her tight. "That _bastard_."

"_Peter!_" Rachel scolded, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "What _is_ the matter with you?"

"I was killed in a train wreck in 1949," Peter said stiffly.

"No, you-" Rachel's eyes widened. "What are you saying?" She pulled out of his grip, stepping away from him.

"I'm saying that your _brother_ played us for bloody _fools!_ Where were you the day the hospital collapsed?" Peter demanded.

She paled, not sure she could tell him the truth. "I-in Westham. I was helping out at the hospital there," she half-lied. "Where were _you?_"

"In Hastings. I heard about the bombings and I wanted to be sure you were all right." Peter stepped closer to her, clenching his jaw. "When I _got_ there, the hospital exploded, right before my eyes. I went in, managed to get one patient and _Richard_ out. The rest of the building collapsed before I could go back in. For _you_. Because, you see, according to the head physician, what's his name? Dr. _Winstrom?_ According to him, _you_ were in surgery."

Rachel's eyes filled with tears and she sank onto the bench behind her. "How could he do this to me?" she whispered, knowing not even _Peter_ could understand the gravity of what Richard had done. "He told me you _did_ go back in, that you were trapped, killed. I lived four years without you because of him."

Peter dropped down beside her, his left hand resting on her knee. She reached out, tenderly drawing her fingertip over the ragged red ribbon tied on his finger. "You still wear it," she observed needlessly.

"Never take it off," he whispered back, leaning up to kiss her forehead as he took her hand and stroked his thumb over the matching ribbon there. "Nothing will ever keep us apart again, Rachel, I promise. No matter what happens. I'll never let you go."

"Pete!" Ed darted down the road, waving to them. "Hallo, Rachel," he grinned. "Aslan wants us up top. All of us." A look of dismay crossed his face and he tugged Peter to his feet. "You better tell her," he hissed.

Rachel cleared her throat delicately. "Ahh… I know. He doesn't need to tell me anything," she murmured hesitantly.

Edmund raised his eyebrows. "You know…"

"About Narnia."

Peter flushed, running a hand through his hair. "It's a long story," he said roughly, sliding his hand into hers and pulling her to her feet.

Edmund eyed them both curiously but any suspicions he might have had on Earth were absent. He shrugged. "Follow me then."

They followed him back up the path into the Real Narnia, which still took Edmund's breath away and Peter's too, to a degree, but didn't seem to impress Rachel all that much. It was, after all, the only Narnia she had ever known.

"Welcome back, child," Aslan greeted her with a smile in his voice as Edmund led them into a private courtyard off Cair Paravel.

Rachel clung to Peter's hand, not afraid, of course, but perhaps a bit leery. "Thank you. Sir," she murmured hesitantly.

Aslan laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that set her hair on edge but brought a comfortable smile to her lips. "I have something I must explain to the two of you," he said gently before nodding to Lucy and Edmund standing by his side. "And I believe your siblings would very much like to hear it as well."

"A-all right." Peter nodded, wrapping his arm around Rachel's shoulders.

"You and your bride have a secret, Peter. A secret you kept to protect the hearts of your brother and sisters."

Peter nodded slowly, avoiding Ed's and Lucy's eyes, though they seemed more intrigued than wounded.

"But it is not the secret you think it is. In your minds, you, Peter and you, Rachel, visited Narnia in what was 1944 in your world," Aslan murmured. "But Rachel has never been to Narnia. Not the Shadowlands you ruled in, at least. She has only been to my Country. Here, this extraordinary version of your beloved home."

Lucy and Edmund stared at him in shock. "You visited _Narnia?_" Lucy shrieked, her eyes wide.

Aslan nudged her hand. "Shh, my child. Please allow me to explain." Lucy nodded, stepping back again. "Stilian," Aslan called and the king and his wife emerged from behind them, along with Tal and Alp the Fox and all of their other friends.

"I told you we would meet again," Kaili smiled, hugging Rachel tightly.

"Aslan, I don't understand," Peter admitted, shaking Stilian's hand.

"You were lost," Aslan murmured regretfully. "My heart would not hear of letting my children so far away from me. But even I cannot break my word, nor the bindings of the Deep Magic I wove to keep your worlds separate. So I brought you here, instead, enlisted the help of King Stilian and Queen Kaili and so many from their time to create the illusion."

"But what about Susan! _She's_ strayed! She denies Narnia even _exists!_" Peter cried, rather indignantly.

"Susan abandoned Narnia and would be okay. You were trying to abandon England and would not. You cannot live in a world you are not actually in, which is exactly what you tried to do. You tried to be a king in a land where you could be just a boy."

Peter tried again to protest but found he could come up with no suitable arguments. Whether that was the magic of Aslan's Country or whether His logic really was that sound, he couldn't be sure.

"So you brought us to _heaven_, just to save one soul?" Rachel clarified slowly.

"It is not _just_. It is _everything_. Every one of you is very special to me," Aslan said softly, nodding in turn to them all.

Rachel's smile brightened and she turned in Peter's arm. "See? I'm _not_ the only one who cares," she half-teased, though her voice was as genuine and loving as possible.

"Now I believe Rachel has something she needs to discuss with Peter," Aslan murmured, his deep baritone telling her _exactly_ what he meant. She flushed in dismay, glancing between him and Peter at her side, teeth sinking into her lip.

"Something to discuss with me?" Peter asked in confusion but Aslan didn't answer, just led the others away. Lucy and Edmund and the rest watched over their shoulders in insatiable curiosity and Peter knew he would have plenty of explaining to do and plenty of questions to ask at a later time. "Something to discuss with me?" he repeated, rounding on her.

Rachel flinched. "Ah… y-yes, I suppose. You better sit down." She nodded to a stone bench.

Peter eyed her cautiously, sitting down with an anxious look on his face. "Rachel, what is it?"

"I haven't been entirely truthful with you. Darling." She paced slowly, wringing her hands. "That day… I _was_ in Westham but not to help at the hospital. I was there for… personal reasons."

"Personal reasons?"

Rachel nodded, running her fingers through her hair. "I-I was…" She stumbled over her words, not sure how to tell him. "I was…"

"Sweetheart, you know you can tell me anything," Peter murmured, standing and resting his hands on her arms.

"I was pregnant," she blurted out, her eyes moist.

He flinched in surprise, staring at her. "What?"

"I was pregnant."

"I _heard_ you." Peter stood frozen in place, shock written on his face. "You mean… he knew?"

"I-I suppose he knows everything," Rachel murmured, glancing at the archway Aslan had left through.

"Not Aslan." Peter's voice was rough but tight, clipped. "He knew and he ruined your life anyway."

Rachel glanced down between them, nodding. "He knew I might be," she agreed.

"I'll kill him," Peter growled, fairly shaking with rage.

"Peter…" She trailed off, tears in her eyes as she looked back up at him. "Peter, my darling…"

Peter tugged her into his arms, burying his face in her hair, that old familiar lavender scent heaven to his senses. He cried on her shoulder without realizing it, his fingers knotting in her blouse. "I have a child," he whispered in obvious shock.

Rachel nodded, stroking her fingers through his hair. "A son," she whispered back.

He pulled back slowly, his hands on her waist as she wiped his tears away with her thumb. "A son?"

"Mhmm. Looks just like you," she murmured with a tearful smile.

"How could he do this?" Peter demanded roughly. "To his own _sister?_ To a little boy, take his father away before he's even born. And his mother, come to think of it, though that wasn't Richard's fault." He brushed his fingers over her cheek. His heart had broken a little more when she told him how she came to be there, a tumor, a disease no one could do a thing about. "What's he like, our son?"

"I don't know," Rachel murmured, her eyes slipping closed as she savored his touch on her skin.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Peter asked, stepping back slightly, though his hand remained on her waist.

Rachel's eyes fluttered open, her lips pursed. "Richard convinced me to give him up," she said sharply before realizing how little Peter would like that.

"He did _what?_ You mean someone else is raising my son, the heir to my crown?" he cried, his voice ringing angrily through the courtyard.

Rachel winced, tugging him back to her. "I couldn't raise a child on my own, Peter," she murmured, not meeting his eyes.

"You wouldn't have _had_ to if it weren't for that no-good, son-of-a-"

Rachel glared at him slightly, pressing her finger to his lips. "You think I like this, finding out my brother virtually killed my fiancé? I _hate_ him for it but you don't see me storming around in a hissy-fit."

Peter glared right back, nipping at her finger. "Yes, well, I'm immature, remember?"

Her lips twitched and she leaned in to press them to his. "Living in sin in heaven is a sure way to get us kicked out," she teased, sliding her hands around his shoulders.

"Well we'll just have to get married then," Peter whispered with a smile, pulling her back for a deep kiss, his hand sliding into her hair as he dipped her down onto the bench, free hand toying with the hem of her blouse.

How he could feel such anger, such passion, such truly human emotions in such an inhuman, righteous place, was beyond him. But it seemed she felt them too and he couldn't help but follow her wherever she wanted him – and his heart – to go.

Kneeling over her there on that bench in Eden, he almost found himself wishing for England, for that cheap hotel bed with the broken springs and the lousy bottle of bourbon they had celebrated New Year's with, as ridiculous as that was. He just wanted a normal bit of life with his normal girl.

But he'd take heaven.

---

Susan sighed heavily, placing yet another sentimental trinket that had brought tears to her eyes in a box. She had never imagined it would be so difficult to clean out the family home so she could sell it. So many memories there, so many more good times than bad. She was working on Peter and Edmund's room now, the dirty socks and haphazard storage system bringing a smile to her face for the first time instead of a disgusted scowl.

Stacking papers strewn across Peter's desk, Susan noticed his journal beneath the mess. She tossed the papers in the trash and picked it up, sinking into his creaking chair. Resting her feet on an open drawer, Susan cracked the journal, the leather folding as she pushed the cover back and began to read.

The first twenty or so pages were filled with notes and scribbles that seemed angry and hardly made a whit of sense. She scanned them disinterestedly until she reached a page with dark lettering:

**HOME SWEET HOME**

, it read.

Her brow knit and she flipped to the next page, reading the start of Peter's novel.

She read, absorbed in his words, his near-flawless handwriting, until long after dark had fallen, her only light his small, green desk lamp casting a yellow glow over the pages.

The story of a boy, a man, really, with heartache and trouble, but all so very English. Not a word about kings or knights or blasted broken round tables. A beautiful woman with flaws and heartaches of her own captured his heart and Susan found herself crying more than once.

It was nearing midnight when she reached the last written page, only a few even left in the journal. His writing had grown pained in the last section, as though he were forcing himself to continue on, but he had finished the novel and he had only one thing left to say:

_Be England what she will, with all her faults, she is my country still._

Charles Churchill

She recognized the name, Peter's favorite poet, from when they were just children, when he had wanted to be a writer, had spent hours every day reading stories and making many of his own up. It seemed he had continued the habit without her ever noticing it.

Susan closed the leather-bound journal gingerly, as though she were afraid this one piece of her brother would disappear if she were to treat it too harshly, the way she had treated him.

The next day she wrapped the journal up and took it to a publishing company in the city.

Realizing her brother's dreams for him, even without his being aware, for she highly doubted he was, was the least she could do.

**THE END**


End file.
